Betrayal
by Valerie J
Summary: [Complete.] When Bishop first joined the X-Men, he warned them that they would be betrayed by one of their own. He was right, but that's only the beginning of the story. (This story diverges from continuity just after X-Men #45.)
1. 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Bishop crouched in the late night shadows, scanning the lakefront before him.  The boathouse was off to his left, windows darkened.  Scott and Jean had gone to bed some hours earlier.  The sound that had alerted him repeated itself, a soft burble that came from the lake.  It might be a fish or a frog, but the sound just didn't seem quite right.

He drew his weapon with silent ease as a figure climbed out of the water onto the dock.  His thumb touched the power setting, ready to slide the indicator from stun to full.  It was only habit now.  He had not used the full power setting in a very long time.  The figure stood on the dock for a moment, then raised its arms and stretched with sinuous grace.  Bishop recognized Psylocke and lowered his weapon.  He moved away as silently as he had approached, grateful that Elizabeth did not seem to have scanned him.  She probably would not appreciate having an audience to her late-night skinny dipping.

Bishop shook his head.  How easily he forgot his real purpose with the X-men!  But it was so easy to absorb the almost carefree culture around him.  Even the X-men did not seem to understand the seriousness of their situation.  For him, it was a constant struggle to remain alert and not get distracted.  Not even by an illicit view of the admittedly very attractive ninja telepath.  He pushed the thought away.  He had no business pursuing such things in this time, or this place.

Bishop emerged from the trees on the mansion's front lawn.  The house was dark, with only the decorative lamps on either side of the driveway lit.  Bishop stayed out of the circle of warmth they cast.

_Always know where y' shadow is, boy._  The Witness' words came back to him as his gaze swept the ground, checking to make sure that he had cast none.  Bishop ground his teeth in frustration.  He had caught a glimpse of Gambit earlier that evening as he went over the south wall.  It galled to know that the Cajun had passed him unnoticed as he had gone through his nightly survey of the grounds.  That was part of the reason he was still at it.  Gambit had not returned yet, and not knowing the man's whereabouts made Bishop very uneasy.  That plus the fact that he had gone over the wall and not taken his bike made Bishop think he did not want anyone to know he was gone.

Bishop climbed the mansion's front stairs and settled on the top one.  The grounds were quiet, as always.  His stomach rumbled but he ignored it.  Hunger was a small thing, and this was just a protest from a body that had become used to eating whenever it wanted.  He had not known true hunger since his childhood.

A tiny sound, the scrape of a shoe on the cement behind him, made Bishop's blood freeze.  He leaped to his feet and turned, gun centering on the source of the sound, all in less than a second.  A small flame erupted in the darkness, highlighting Gambit's angular face.  He lit his cigarette, snuffed the match with a snap of his wrist.  The dual scents of tobacco and sulfur assaulted Bishop's nose.

"Relax, Bish.  It's jus' me."  Gambit has not moved.  Were it not for the glow from his cigarette, he would be invisible in the shadows.

"I rarely find that to be the least bit reassuring."  Bishop returned his gun to its holster.  "Any particular reason you were sneaking up on me?"

The corner of Gambit's mouth curled upward.  "Who said I was sneakin'?  You not payin' attention."  He moved out of the shadows to lean casually against one of the columns that decorated the porch front.

Time passed in silence.  Gambit extinguished the remains of his cigarette and the butt disappeared with a flicker of motion.  Bishop recognized the slight of hand for what it was, and also realized that it was completely unconscious.  Gambit was not paying him the least bit of attention.  He seemed wrapped in his own thoughts as he stared out into the darkness.  Eventually, he turned.

"'Night, Bishop."  

"LeBeau."

Gambit passed him and went into the house.  Bishop watched him go and wondered, as he always did, what the truth really was.  As he had learned from his experience in the alternate timeline of Apocalypse's domination, anything could happen.  Gambit had been loyal to the X-men in that timeline.  And even if he had betrayed and murdered the X-men in Bishop's own timeline, that was no guarantee that he would do so in the present one.  It was a frightening prospect, not knowing.  All he could do was continue to watch Gambit in the hopes that he would be able to protect the X-men if necessary.

#

Remy LeBeau ignored his reflection as he tossed items onto the bureau.  Watch, lighter, pocket change.  The metal winked in the lamplight, but dully.  It wasn't like a gemstone or the warm luster of gold.  Remy pushed the thoughts aside.  Thinking like that would only get him in trouble.  

The clock on the corner of the bureau showed a few minutes after four.  It whirred softly as the gears pushed the minute hand another notch forward.  It was an antique, though not particularly valuable.  Remy had bought it because of the intricate carving that framed the face.  Unfortunately, it didn't ever keep exact time.  His watch read four fifteen or so, but he kept the clock because Rogue had once mentioned how much she liked it.

_You a fool, boy_, he told the reflection in the mirror.  It only smirked back at him.  Rogue was down the hall a ways.  She had finally come back, to the X-men at least.  He had been right about that.  But there was nothing left of what they had had.  Whatever that had been.  

Remy turned away from the dresser, stripping off his shirt as he went.  Now all she would give him was the proverbial cold shoulder and an occasional icy stare.  They had survived the expected regiment of danger room sequences, proving to the Professor's satisfaction that they could still work together.  Other than that, they avoided each other as much as possible.

Hunger gnawed at him.  He'd been too busy to eat much dinner and that was hours ago.  He finished changing out of the casual suit he'd been wearing, switching to cutoffs.  Barefoot, he left his room and padded toward the kitchen.

The sound of the refrigerator opening alerted him.  Someone else was in the kitchen ahead of him.

_Jus'_ _my luck. Prob'ly be Bishop_.  He paused, decided he was hungry enough to put up with the man's antagonism, and stepped into the kitchen.

Rogue stood in front of the open refrigerator door, hand on hip.  She was dressed only in a nightshirt-- the blue one that was her favorite.  The backlighting from the fridge outlined her figure neatly.  Remy bit back the comment that rose to his lips.  He was too tired for a full-blown fight.

"Midnight munchies, chere?"

"Remy!"  She whirled, and put her back against the open door.  "What do you want?"  She looked frazzled as if she hadn't slept much that night.

He advanced a couple of steps.  "Same t'ing you do, I expect."

She stared at him, anger flashing in her eyes.  "And what, exactly, is that supposed ta mean?"

Remy grinned.  This round was his.  "Food, girl.  Or were y' lookin' f' somet'ing else in dere?"

She flushed.  "Oh."  As Remy approached she sidled away from the refrigerator.  "Ah wasn't really hungry anyway," she said.  Then she was gone in a flash of long leg and red hair.

Remy sighed.  He got little satisfaction from winning these little scuffles.  It was just better than losing.  Rogue had always had a quick temper and sometimes her tongue cut deep.  Keeping her off balance protected him from that, at least.

Appetite gone, he built himself a sandwich and ate it.  It had been a bad day all around.  He was having no luck figuring out what Sinister's angle was, and information about the man was incredibly hard to come by.  He had thought he had a lead on something Sinister had been involved in several years earlier, but had turned up nothing.  He could still hope for a break, of course.  Every gambler got one once in a while.  But he had a bad, bad feeling that he was going to get blindsided by this one.

It was all just a matter of time.  He had already lost Rogue.  Eventually, his past was going to cost him the X-men as well.  All he could do was wait for the end, and maybe enjoy what he had for as long as it lasted.  Sitting there alone in the darkened kitchen, it didn't seem like that would be very long at all.


	2. [2]

Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Morning came far too early, at least as far as Remy was concerned.  Cyclops had this awful habit of scheduling practice sessions at seven a.m., somehow believing that it was good for people to be about at that hour.  Night owl that he was, Remy tended to go to bed just before dawn and sleep til noon or a little later if he could get away with it.  Cyclops' bright-boy schedules meant his nights got pretty short sometimes.  Still, he was in the danger room at seven sharp, head aching, wishing he felt half as awake as Bishop looked.  He knew perfectly well Bishop couldn't have gotten any more sleep than he had, but he certainly didn't show it.

The exercise was for both teams, so everyone was present.  Professor X was up in the observation booth, watching them.  As the holograms began to coalesce and the robots emerged from their cubbies, it became obvious that this was a multi-enemy, multi-target scenario.  That was all right with Remy.  Lots of action and not too much thinking suited him just fine this morning.  

Within moments, the danger room dissolved into a whirlwind of motion, lanced with beams of bright colored light, flying projectiles and fast moving bodies.  Remy leapt into the midst of a flight of missiles to avoid the snaking metal coils that were trying to ensnare him.  Twisting mid-air, he made certain that he did not cross any of the missiles' flight paths.  They passed him harmlessly and continued on toward their original target--Archangel.  He landed easily, charged cards already flying.  The metal coils were reduced to scrap in a matter of moments.  It was easy and, in a bizarre sense, fun.

Momentarily out of opponents, Remy expanded his less-obvious mutant power.  He was aware of the location, speed and direction of every moving object in the room.  It was the gift that made his agility seem so uncanny.  He checked on each of his teammates, making sure that none were in a mess they couldn't get out of, and then jumped back into the fray.  Bobby and Storm were teamed up against a couple of the new sentinels the X-men had been running into with alarming regularity lately.  They were holding their own, but it looked like they could use some help.  Remy worked his way towards them.  His powers were definitely operating on "high" today, despite the long night.  His senses felt preternaturally sharp, making him aware of anything that approached long before it could become a threat to him.  Too bad his powers didn't behave this way all the time.  Sometimes the spatial awareness simply failed him, though never completely, and he ended up either in trouble or making a fool of himself, depending on the situation.  Luckily, his kinetic energy power didn't falter like that.  It, at least, was well behaved. 

He had often considered telling Rogue, to let her know that he did understand her frustration, at least a little bit.  But it seemed so insignificant next to her problem that he had finally decided it would just sound patronizing.

He let fly at the sentinel that was pressing Bobby and Storm.  The glow of his cards was nearly lost in the bright streaks of lightning that rained down around it.  The new threat was enough to distract it from Iceman, whose ice began to creep up its legs.  Before, it had been successfully breaking the heavy sheets of ice before they could cool the metal to dangerous temperatures.  It was a very old tactic against the sentinels, but still effective.  Eventually, Bobby brought the temperature down to the necessary point.  He signaled Storm, who shattered the knee joint with a brilliant burst of lightning, and then she and Gambit finished it off.

The other X-men were finishing off the remaining opponents as Ororo settled to the ground beside Remy.  She always looked like a butterfly, he thought as he watched her.  She smiled as if sensing that he had been admiring her.  There was still an undercurrent of sexuality to their relationship despite the fact that it was, and always had been, platonic.  Remy was often surprised that he no longer had any interest in pursuing that aspect.  And it wasn't entirely because of Rogue.

_Maybe y' jus' growing up_, he told himself.

"I think I will be quite ready for breakfast," commented Storm.

Remy shrugged.  "I ate a couple a hours ago."

Storm's eyebrow arched in interest.  "Long night?"

He shrugged again.  "You used t' keep dose hours too, Stormy."

"Indeed."  She began to move away.  Throwing him a teasing look over her shoulder she added, "But I have grown wiser over the years."

He acknowledged the gentle chide with a smile and followed her.  Several X-men had gathered around Bishop, who was wrapping a makeshift bandage around a short gash in his forearm.  His glowering expression said that he was unhappy, probably because he still saw it as a failure to be injured in a training exercise.  But the truth was that they all got tagged from time to time.

Hank interrupted Bishop's bandaging to check the wound.  He grinned merrily, showing teeth.  "In my expert opinion, Bishop me boy, it's just a scratch.  Two or three stitches, at most."

"Certainly not enough t' interfere wit your love life."  Remy couldn't resist that one.

Bishop's gaze snapped up to his, real anger burning there, and Remy wondered what raw nerve he'd managed to stumble on.  Bishop usually ignored any and all teasing about women.

"You should watch your tongue, LeBeau.  You might lose it."  Bishop's voice was cold.

"What?  To you?"  Remy tried to keep his response light.  _Sure know how t' step in it, don'cha Remy?_

Bishop smiled unexpectedly, as if he had been joking all along.  But his next words went down Gambit's spine like ice water.  "Hunters in the parade, right, LeBeau?  But I might just sneak up on you."

Remy knew he was staring, mouth agape.  But he was just so surprised that for a moment he simply couldn't move.  "Hunters in the parade" was a catch phrase for a message in Guild code.  It meant that whoever you were talking to was a messenger and his message was so urgent that you were to drop everything to relay it.  It meant that you had Guild permission to do anything, kill anyone, without thought for the consequences because the lives of the Guild were depending on that message.  Remy had never heard of it being used in his lifetime, but he had been trained to react if he ever did.  Gut-level fear gripped him, an instinctive response to the knowledge that, somehow, his family's lives were on the line.

He didn't remember moving, but found himself on top of Bishop with a knife at the other man's throat.  His knee pinned one arm and his hand held the other.  Bishop's gun was still sliding across the floor, knocked away.  He was vaguely aware of the expressions of surprise on the X-men's faces.  Enough time had not passed yet to allow them to react.  Bishop's expression was angry and startled.  Remy knew that he was lucky to have taken Bishop down.  If his powers weren't at their present level, he probably couldn't have done it.  But none of that really mattered to him.  All that mattered was the coded warning.

"Who told you that, Bishop?!"  A drop of blood oozed from around the point of his knife.  Then Jean's telekinetic field yanked the dagger from his hand.  Bishop seized the momentary distraction and knocked Remy away.

Scott and Henry each grabbed one of Bishop's arms, restraining him from leaping after Gambit.  Remy felt slim hands fasten around his wrists.  They were less giving than steel, and he knew that it was Rogue who held him from behind.

After a couple of moments, Bishop reigned in his anger.  He shrugged off the restraining hands and touched the trickle of blood at his throat.  "Told me _what_, LeBeau?"  

The X-men were all staring at Remy expectantly.  He ignored them.  His attention was focused solely on Bishop.  Had he been less distracted, he would have realized that his normal veneer had slipped, exposing shades of the man who had occasionally been forced into the role of cold-blooded killer.  A tiny growl, a warning, escaped Logan.

"'Hunters in the parade'.  Who told you that?"  Remy was aware of Wolverine, and he tried to exert a little more control.  His words came out at least halfway normal.

"Huh?"  Even Bishop was dumbfounded.  "It's just an expression."

"_Who told you!?_"

"Gambit!  Calm down!"  Cyclops' voice carried its usual weight, but even Bishop ignored him.  The two men stared at each other across a gulf of time and suspicion.  In the end, Bishop answered the bizarre question.

"You did!  All right?  In my time."  Bishop crossed his arms as if daring Remy to contradict him.

"_I _did?"  

"Yeah.  I don't even know why I happened to think of it."

Remy felt his knees give way as the implications hit him. He had been frightened before; he was terrified now.  If he, in the future, had used that phrase, then it was a warning of death for everyone he cared about.  Everything Bishop had ever said about the murders of the X-men flashed through his mind.  Remy had survived that attack and lived to be known as the last person to see the X-men alive.  That he believed, simply because Bishop didn't lie.  But why?  Because he got lucky?  Or, perhaps, as Bishop believed, was it because he was the one who had betrayed them?  That was not so far fetched as he had once believed.  The questions spun through his mind. 

            And now the future version of himself was sending him a warning.  A version of himself who _knew _the truth.  Remy wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know the truth.

A cool hand cupping his face brought Gambit back to himself.  "Remy, are you all right?"

He focused on Storm.  She knelt in front of him, face less than a foot away from his.  Rogue knelt beside her, her red hair tangling with Ororo's white.  Rogue was peering at him with concern in her green eyes.  It was the kindest expression she had given him since her return, and it took the edge off of cold in his bones.

Professor Xavier arrived then, the pitch of his hoverchair's mechanical hum decreasing as he slowed to a stop next to Remy.

"Gambit.  Would you care to explain what just happened?"  His tone was studiously neutral, with a hint of curiosity.

Remy looked up at him.  "Oui, Professor."  He wondered if he sounded as faint as he felt.  "I jus' need to ask Bishop one more question, first."

"Which is?"  Bishop eyed him warily.

"What did I-- uh, de future me… whoever… say next?"  

Bishop's expression said he clearly couldn't believe what was happening.  He thought for a moment and looked to the Professor, who nodded.

"You said 'You should get out of the rain.  Sometimes it comes down as poison.'"  He paused.  "It wasn't raining at the time."

"Is dat word for word?"

"Minus the cajun accent, yes.  What does it mean?"

"Don' know jus' yet.  It's Guild code."  Remy sighed.  "Heck, I'm gonna need paper f' dis.  No way I can be translatin' it in m' head."

#

The man sits in silence, unmoving.  He is very old, and by a casual observer might be mistaken for a rag-draped skeleton.  A small sphere hovers before him, its dull glow the only light in the room.  The sphere shows an image-- people, places, things past.  Not as they were, but as they are becoming.  There is no sound.  The conversation he has just witnessed is relayed telepathically through the projection equipment that sits like an oversized toad at his feet.

A shimmering in the air in front of him attracts the man's attention.  He is not surprised.  The shimmering coalesces into a face.  It is human in appearance, though it looks like it is made of circuitry rather than flesh.  It glances at the image globe and then looks to the man. 

            The man does not acknowledge the others' arrival.  Though he knows his opponent's name, he has never used it.  There is no need.

"A very interesting move," the shimmering face comments.  "A pity it isn't legal."

Still the man does not move.  "It's legal."  His voice is dry and raspy.  He does not speak very often anymore.

"Sending a message to the X-men is a direct violation of the rules of our contest."  The face does not change expression.  In appearance, it is a very crude projection.   The man has never discovered if that is an effect his opponent chooses, or if it is the only projection of which he is capable.

The man moves now, and turns to face the other.  "The rules say dat I cannot send a person or other physical object, and dat I cannot send dem a message or signal on any kind of carrier wave or telepathically.  Dat is correct, is it not?"

The face nods.  "That is what the rules say."

The man does not allow himself the luxury of a smile.  "I have done none of dose t'ings."

The other is silent for a long time.  The man does not care.  He has long since learned the grueling lessons of patience.

Eventually, the face speaks.  "Very well.  The move is legal."  The projection begins to discorporate.  When it is gone, the man returns his attention to the globe.  

A woman enters the room.  The light from the hallway behind her is harsh, drowning out the pale glow of the images before him.  She is tall and slim, with blond hair that falls in a perfectly straight sheath to well below her hips.  She is not beautiful, but she moves with a lithe grace that many men would find attractive.  She closes the door and goes to stand beside the man's chair.

"Bishop has succeeded?" she asks.  There is a hint of concern in her voice, though only the man knows her well enough to hear it beneath the cold professionalism.

"So far."  The man studies her profile as she watches the globe.

He is tempted to take her hand, but knows how much she hates contact.  Still there is a part of him that aches for her pain.  

"You should have said somet'ing to him, chile.  While you still had de chance."

She does not reply and he does not press her.  Shackle is a thief and assassin, and loyal to the point of fanaticism.  But the man has learned that there are some things that he is powerless to change.

"I came to tell you that Mr. Solomon is here.  I think he is ready to deal."  Shackle does not take her eyes from the image globe until the man shuts it down with a telepathic nudge.  The room is plunged into total darkness, but that does not bother either of them.

"Tell him I'll be dere in a few minutes."


	3. [3]

Chapter 3 

Chapter 3

"This code is quite amazing."  Hank McCoy watched the translation process over Gambit's shoulder.

"Ought ta be.  T'ieves been working on it f' three hundred years."

"Really?  Given the highly mathematical nature, I would have thought it was newer than that."

Gambit gave him an odd look.  "Mat'ematical?  It's jus' words."

Hank chuckled.  "Yes, words.  But manipulated through matrix inversions in two languages.  Well, except for these arbitrary conversions.  You just have these memorized?"

"Oui."  Gambit finished the translation square he was working on and filled in another portion of the message.

Bishop watched him silently.  He didn't understand the math Hank was talking about either, but he knew something about codes.  And this one was pretty complicated, at least for deciphering by hand.  Not that he really cared about the code itself.  He was just trying to distract himself while he waited to find out what message the Witness had planted in his head.  It could all be over in a couple of minutes, if the message was the warning he hoped it would be.  Could he have been wrong all along, and Gambit had survived the attack on the X-men for some other reason?  Or would this perhaps be a part of the trap?

A sound from Gambit brought his attention back to the present.  It might have been a laugh but Gambit's expression was dark.  He was staring at the results of another round of translation.

"Problems?"  Hank asked.

"No.  It's jus' -- No."  The piece of paper slid from between his fingers.  

Hank picked up the sheet.  "Is this finished?"

This time Gambit did laugh, but it was a broken sound.  "Oui, it's done.  I even signed it."

Hank looked at the page to see what had upset Gambit so greatly.  His eyebrows arched as he read, but he did not comment.

"Hank?"  Professor Xavier watched them from the far side of the table.  The other X-men were gathering from the farther corners of the study, sensing that the job was done.  "Will you read the message, please?"

"Ahem.  Of course, Professor."  Hank glanced up at the assembled X-men.  "It's pretty short.  Here goes."  He looked back down at the paper in his hands.  "'This is the beginning.  Build the code.  Gambit.'"

"That's it?"  The professor's gaze shifted between Hank and Gambit.

"I'm afraid so," Hank answered.  Gambit said nothing.

"But who killed the X-men?!"  Bishop slammed his fists down on the table with the sound of a thunderclap.

Gambit looked up slowly.  "You de one wit all de secrets in y' head, Bishop.  You tell me."

Bishop paused, taken aback.  The Professor gave him an appraising stare.  "I think that might be a very good idea."

#

After absorbing much of Remy's knowledge of his guild's code, it did not take Professor Xavier long to begin identifying coded phrases that were recorded in Bishop's memory.  They were all odd statements that the Witness had uttered over the years, things that Bishop had simply attributed to the whims of a madman.  The "hunters in the parade" catch phrase was indeed the beginning.  It was the first coded phrase, chronologically, in Bishop's life.

Remy was not involved in the long sessions of memory searching.  Bishop had flatly refused when the professor suggested that he would be the best person to help with the search.  Unhappily, Bishop had let the professor sift through his mind, but only him.  Even Jean did not participate.  Remy couldn't blame him.  The though of someone going through _his_ mind like that gave him shivers.  Instead, he and Hank had the onerous task of translating everything the professor handed them.  To their dismay, everything after that first message was gibberish.

"Any progress?" Xavier asked one evening after nearly two weeks had passed.

"Sure, Professor."  Remy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  "Now we got two pages o' garbage.  Couple days ago we only got de one."

"Gambit, please."  The Professor rubbed at his temples.  He looked tired.  Remy felt a stab of regret.  He was probably just as frustrated as the rest of them.

Hank took off his glasses and began to clean them with the corner of his jacket.  "The original message said to 'build the code'."  He remarked without looking up.  "I think there must be something we missed.  'Building' would imply a creative act of some sort, which we have not done.  All we have done is used an existing code."  

He put his glasses back on.  "I think we've been doing the wrong translation."

"Translation's right," Remy protested.

"That's not what I meant."

"But I think Gambit has a valid point," the professor interjected before an argument could start.  "I am only working on an instinct here, but I do believe we're supposed to be using the thieves' code."

"Den why don' it make any sense?"  Remy stared at the papers on the table in front of him.  Not that he needed to-- the lines were etched into his memory.  Lately, they'd become a regular component of his nightmares.

"Perhaps we need to do a second translation?"  Hank, too, looked at the familiar lines.  "But I've already put what we have through the best cipher program I know of, and it didn't come up with squat."

"May I?"

Remy shrugged and slid the papers over to the Professor.  He studied them for a while.  The first two lines read:

            raans edun satshi

            coordnun 12 (ramal 3 ? % (ii nod (6)    

Eventually, he sighed and sat back.  "Well, I don't have any inspirations."

Hank grinned.  "It's kind of catchy if you put it to music."  He began to sing "raans edun satshi" to the tune of "Three Blind Mice".

Remy chuckled despite himself, but the professor only stared at Hank.  Then he grabbed up the pages of text and started scanning them at a furious pace.

"Professor?"

Charles Xavier looked up and smiled.  "This is in Shi'ar.  Or some of it is, at least.  I didn't recognize the words because they're spelled out phonetically with English characters instead of Shi'ar."

"Fascinating."  Hank went to stand behind the professor so that he, too, could see the pages.

"So what's it mean?"  Remy asked them from across the table.

"Well, 'raans edun satshi' means 'begin construct'."

Hank slapped his furry forehead with an equally furry palm.  "Of course!  It's a _computer _code."  He pointed a finger at Remy.  "You, my Cajun friend, are frighteningly devious."

"Huh?"  Remy was lost.  

"Look, when any of us uses the Shi'ar computers, we use the English interface because no one knows Shi'ar well enough to program in it.  But what's stored in Bishop's brain is a Shi'ar code-- in Shi'ar-- only it's spelled out with English characters instead.  So all we have to do is rewrite this and whatever else there is with Shi'ar letters and feed it to the computer.  Then voila!"  Henry was grinning toothily.

"So we got de answer?"

"Dear boy, it's all but in the bag."


	4. [4]

Chapter 4 

Chapter 4

Rain dripped from the edge of the rusted scrap metal that served Bishop as a roof.  His breath came out in clouds, though it wasn't quite cold enough for the rain to freeze.  Shard huddled against him, shivering.  The sounds of explosions were growing more distant but Bishop knew it wasn't safe to move on yet.  He bit his lip hard to keep the tears at bay.  He had to be strong and alert.  

The enforcers had swept through their area like an Armageddon.  The kind old man who had watched over them was dead, shredded by automatic weapons fire.  Bishop could still see his twisted body and empty eyes.  But the rest of the day was a blur.  They had run for their lives, more terrified than Bishop had ever been in his short life.  The enforcers were leveling the entire quadrant to wipe out the indigent mutant population.  There was no place to hide where the treads of the armored vehicles wouldn't crush them or the heavy explosives wouldn't destroy them.  People ran in all directions, only to die as the enforcers cut them down from behind.  Miraculously, Bishop and Shard escaped time and again.

Finally, they had managed to veer off of the path of the destroyers, finding shelter in the wreckage of an aircraft that had been downed in the war years before Bishop was born.  From there they had watched the enforcers go by, their destruction aimed in a slightly different direction.  As the explosions and weapons fire retreated into distant thunder, Bishop decided it was time to move on.  

"Shard."  He nudged his sister.  "Let's go.  The enforcers are far enough away."

Shard ignored him.  He nudged her again, harder, and when she shifted limply his heart froze.

"Shard!  Wake up!"  In the darkness, he couldn't tell where she was hurt or how badly, but she remained unresponsive.  He put his face next to hers and felt a faint puff of warmth.  She was still breathing, at least.

He was going to have to find someplace safe-- and warm.  Someone would have to help them.  But he knew that was very unlikely.  People didn't have enough to take care of their own, let alone a couple of strays.  Still, he caught Shard up under the arms and began to drag her towards the city lights that beckoned from several miles away.

He was crouched in the shadow of a boarded-up doorway, Shard cradled in his lap, when he heard it-- a soft whisper of cloth, a tiny scrape of something against the cement street.  Someone was out there.  Bishop's breath froze in his lungs.  He was glad he'd been sitting still for a few minutes, resting.  There was a chance that whoever or whatever that was, hadn't seen him.

A dark shadow drifted past his line of vision, paused.  It turned a slow circle, searching for something.  Bishop held his breath.  _We're not here.  There's nobody here.  Please don't notice us.  There's nothing here but metal and brick and rain_  He tried to press himself back into the corner of the doorway, as if he could make himself part of the structure.  The figure took a few steps then turned again.  Bishop saw a pair of glowing red eyes and shivered

"Come out, pup," a quiet voice told him.  The red eyes skewered him where he sat.    Bishop didn't move.  He was too frightened.  The figure moved closer, resolving into a man.  He was old, Bishop noted in surprise, but moved with an agile grace that even a young man would envy.  The red eyes watched him intently.

"De girl die if she don' get some attention, pup," he said.           

Bishop still said nothing.  He wasn't certain he could.     

"I know a place where she be safe. You too."   

Finally, Bishop found his voice.  "I don't have any money."        

"Didn' ask f' any, pup."  The man tilted his head, as if he were listening to something Bishop couldn't hear.         

"We runnin' out o' time.  De enforcers be turnin' dere sweep dis way.  You comin'?"    

Bishop listened intently.  The sounds of violence did seem to be getting louder.  But his instincts screamed at the thought of going with this red-eyed man.            

"What's it going to cost?"  He knew there were far worse things than dying at the hands of the enforcers.  Bishop couldn't see the man's expression, but he thought he sensed a kind of approval.

"Does it matter?" the man answered.     

Bishop climbed to his feet.  _Not really_.  Shard was the only family he had.  Frightened but somehow hopeful, he brought Shard out to the man who scooped her up easily in his arms.  Then he followed the man through the twisted ruins towards the bright city lights.

#

Bishop came back to himself with a start.  Gambit leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Dey ready, Bishop.  Y' comin'?"         

"Yeah."  Bishop levered himself to his feet.  He tried to push the visage of the past out of his mind, but Gambit's red eyes flashed as he turned and Bishop felt a chill. 

He followed Gambit into the danger room.  The program they'd pulled out of his mind was loaded and ready to run.  So far all they knew about it was that it was designed to modify a danger room sequence.  On the off chance that it was intended to turn the room into a weapon to kill them with, Bishop had insisted that only a minimum of people be present in the danger room when the program was run.  Therefore, only he, Gambit and Beast would actually be in the room.  Everyone else was crowded into the observation booth, where Professor Xavier waited at the controls.             

The heavy door slid shut behind him.  Hank waited for them in the center of the cavernous room.  Bishop heard his own footsteps echoing as he walked toward the waiting man and realized suddenly that Gambit's didn't.  It was unnerving.            

"Well, gentlemen," Hank said as they approached, "are you ready for this?"       

Bishop drew his weapon.  "I am ready."            

Gambit said nothing.  Bishop could tell he was uncomfortable, but his face was unreadable.  Not that Bishop could really blame him.  If he _was_ the traitor, he was effectively trapped.         

"Very well," Hank said.  "We're ready, Professor."       

The professor's voice echoed through the danger room's sound system.  "I am running the program now."         

Several moments passed in silence.  Bishop opened his mouth to speak, but Hank waved him off.          

"It's probably going to take a few minutes.  Remember, it's modifying an existing sequence.  It has to update the code and recompile it before we'll see anything."           

They waited in silence.  Then an area off to their left began to shimmer with the familiar iridescence of an impending holographic projection.  It solidified into a man.  He was very old, with long gray hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.  He was dressed immaculately in black and navy, with a long black cloak draped over his shoulders.  The keen red eyes studied the trio intently. 

Gambit's jaw dropped. 

"Oh my," commented Beast.     

Bishop simply stared at the hologram before him. His gun drooped in slack fingers.  "Witness," he breathed.


	5. [5]

Chapter 5

"Congratulations," the Witness said into the stunned silence.  "I'm impressed."

Bishop's gun snapped up, centering on him.       The Witness smiled.  "Y' really goin' t' shoot a hologram, pup?"

Bishop glanced down at the weapon in his hands then self-consciously put it away.  Remy noticed his discomfort on some level, but most of his mind was still reverberating with surprise.  No, not surprise.  It was more than that.  He had _known_ something like this would happen.  But to be standing face to face with...well, himself... was more than he wanted to cope with.        

"Shut y' mouth, boy, an' deal wit it."  The Witness watched Remy, a faint smile on his lips.  But it did not go as far as his eyes, which were very cold.  Remy realized in that instant that this man _scared_ him.  Not really because of the future he represented, but simply because Remy had met people with eyes like that before.  He knew what they were capable of.            

Remy didn't say anything, so it was Beast who spoke first.  "Uh, hello.  I'm assuming you know who I am?"  He, too, was obviously at a loss.

The Witness smiled.  "'Course, Hank.  It's been a long time, neh?"

"For you, I suppose."  Hank adjusted his glasses.  It was a nervous habit Remy had noticed.  He tended to fiddle with his glasses whenever he was uncomfortable in a social situation.  "I, on the other hand, can't honestly say that we've met.  If you know what I mean."

"I do."  The Witness' smile remained in place.  He seemed thoroughly amused.  

The danger room door slid open and the X-men entered, led by Professor Xavier.  There was a collective wariness about them, an uncertainty of how to react to the Witness' presence.

"Hello, Remy," the Professor said as his hoverchair slowed.  His face was a pleasant mask.

The Witness met his gaze evenly.  "Witness, please.  It will save some confusion."  Although the words were polite, Remy could sense the underlying tension.  This man met the Professor as an equal, not as an X-man.  There was a tremendous amount of reserve written into the set of his shoulders and the tightness of his expression. Remy wondered if the professor noticed it, too.

"Very well.  Witness it is.  I suppose I should be blunt.  It is obvious you've gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange this-- meeting.  I am certain we'd all like to know why."

"All _I_ want to know is who killed the X-Men."  Bishop stepped in front of the Witness, his stance belligerent.

"Sorry, pup.  Can' tell y' dat one."  The Witness turned away, his gaze sweeping the assembled X-men.

"Can't?  Or won't?"  Bishop was angry now.

The Witness turned back to him. "Won'."  His expression dared Bishop to push him.

Storm laid a restraining hand on Bishop's arm.  "Why not?" she asked.

The Witness gave her a nod of acknowledgement.  It wasn't exactly a friendly gesture, but it was respectful.  "Better question, ma chere.  But still not good enough."

Storm edged around Bishop and approached the Witness.  To everyone's surprise, she reached out and took both of his hands in hers.  The danger room had created a solid projection.  She stared directly into his eyes, searching.  Remy felt a deep twinge.  She was looking for a reason to believe, to trust.

"My friend, did you come to help us?"  Her quiet words were like nails driven into Remy's heart.  Still, he couldn't help but understand.  He didn't know why this other version of him was there, either.

The Witness' expression softened and he drew her closer.  "'Course, Stormy.  I tol' you I'd always be dere for you.  But dere are limits... reasons it has t' be dis way."  His words were very low.  Remy felt a bizarre stab of jealousy for the intimate moment.

Storm smiled.  "I believe you."

Bishop's expression was thunderous, but he held his tongue.

"So now all we have to do is figure out the right questions to ask, yes?"  Hank asked, breaking the rapport.

The Witness released Storm abruptly and nodded.  "Oui.  Dat is all."  The irony in his voice made Remy think that wasn't going to be an easy task. 

#

Bishop ran the cloth over the gun barrel without really being aware of it.  He had taken the weapon apart and cleaned it three times in a row now.  It was a familiar activity, and one he did not need much attention for.  He was sitting on his bed, the cleaning supplies spread out on a towel beside him, but his eyes were focused on the floor.  He was trying to understand how he felt.  He hadn't slept in nearly two days, not since the Witness' arrival.  Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a dizzying montage of images-- the X-men dead in various ways, Jean's final message, the Witness, Gambit.  And all of it left him feeling so completely lost, so completely helpless, he could barely stand it.

A knock on the door stilled his hand and his thoughts.  His finger curled around the trigger, though he didn't raise the weapon.

"Bishop, sugar, y'all right in there?"  Rogue peeked around the edge of his door.

"Of course."  He began putting the cleaning supplies away.  "Did you want something?" he asked without looking at her.

The door creaked as she opened it and stepped inside.  He deliberately kept the hinge un-lubricated, though he knew most professionals would think to oil the hinges before trying the door.  Rogue crossed the room and stood in front of him.  She watched him putting all of the cleaning supplies into their case without comment.

When he had finished, he looked up at her.  They were nearly eye-level, despite the fact that he was seated.  Rogue did not meet his gaze.  She was staring at her gloved hands, which were knitted together as if she needed to hold on to them to keep them still.

"Ah just wanted t' know about the Witness," she began without preamble.  "Y'all grew up with him, an' ah thought. . . ." She took a deep breath.  "Ah thought ya might be willin' t' tell me about him."  She looked directly into his eyes for one brief moment, and Bishop saw the conflicting hope and fear there.

"He's the head of one of the biggest crime syndicates in the country, Rogue."  Bishop knew he wasn't being very gentle.  But he didn't want to see her get her heart broken-- again.

"Ah know.  Ya said that before."  But the expression in her eyes hadn't changed.

"Then I'll be more specific."  Bishop's words came out clipped, angry.  Rogue simply refused to see the truth so often.  For her own sake, he wanted to end this fascination before it caused her any more grief.  He was not quite willing to admit to himself that he was at least as angry at himself for similar reasons.

"The Witness'-- _Gambit's_-- syndicate controls almost all of the major criminal activity up and down the east coast, along with some overseas interests.  It's drugs, extortion, gambling, high-dollar theft, of course, assassination, prostitution..."  Rogue winced and he relented.  Her face had completely drained of color.

"Wasn't-- wasn't there anything good?"

Bishop shrugged, and his own nagging doubts converged.  "I don't know.  He took in strays.  Me.  Shard.  Shackle.  We probably would have died out on our own.  But I can't say I believe it was out of the goodness of his heart."

Rogue was silent, and Bishop wondered if hurting her like this was really for the best.  But it seemed like the wisest thing to do.

After a moment, Rogue wrapped her arms around herself.  "So who's Shackle?"

Bishop sighed.  "She is-- she was--" He fumbled with the verb tenses.  "--just another stray.  The Witness took her in about a year after me and Shard."  He paused, wondering if he should say anything else.  He wasn't certain how the words might come out.  Shackle's life with the Witness was something he had never resolved in his own heart, but Rogue deserved the best explanation he could give her.

"She'd been used-- badly.  Somebody's entertainment piece.  She was only eleven or so, but the Witness said she'd been a toy for a couple of years, at least."  Bishop was lost in his own memories now, unaware of Rogue's presence.

"She never got over what happened to her. _ He_ said there was something broken inside her, and it never did heal."  He paused.  "She likes knives."

"The Witness taught her... everything, I guess.  To be a thief and assassin.  The rest of the business."  He turned the gun over in his hands.  "She's his protégé, and personal bodyguard.  Maybe his lover.  I don't know."

He looked up at Rogue.  "But she's a cold killer, and he's the one who taught her.  He said it was just giving her something useful to do, since there was no way to really help her, but I don't believe that.  She's a useful tool to him, and that's all."  Bishop stood and Rogue backed away.  

She shook her head uncertainly.  "No, ah can't believe that."

"It's true."  He slammed the lid of the case closed with unnecessary force.

Rogue turned away.

"Just don't be fooled, Rogue!"  Bishop called after her as she disappeared into the corridor.

Bishop sighed and glanced at his reflection in the wall mirror that Storm had given him.  _Let's hope that I will not be fooled, either_.  Despite all the years he had spent learning to be vigilant, he was very afraid that he had already missed the most vital piece of this puzzle.  

#

Charles Xavier was completely exasperated.  No matter what he asked or how he phrased the questions, there seemed to be an unlimited number of things the Witness simply would not talk about.  And since he was dealing with a hologram that didn't even exist telepathically, he had no clue as to the rationale that drove that refusal.  And to make matters worse, the Witness simply sat there and waited, unperturbed by anything Charles could say or do.  

_Of course, it_ is _a hologram_ he chided himself.  _It can't get frustrated_.  Judging from his own emotional state, it was time to try something new.

"Can you tell me what happened _after_ we were all killed?" he asked.

The Witness nodded.  "Certainly".

_Hallelujah,_ Charles thought and was mortified to find the Witness chuckling at the expression that must have been on his face.  This wasn't like dealing with Gambit, who was still young enough to miss a great deal.  He was discovering that this "man", for lack of a better term, was an intellect of a caliber similar to his own.  He had seen the potential in Gambit, of course, but it was well obscured by youth, ego and a dismaying lack of formal education.

"As you c'n prob'ly guess, de other X-teams were stunned by what happened."  The Witness' expression was guarded, as if he were broaching a painful subject.  Charles was again amazed at how realistic this projection was.  Despite the fact that it couldn't really feel anything, it-- he?-- often gave the impression of suppressed emotions.

"De real problems started when folks went lookin' f' revenge.  Mystique went ballistic.  Y' c'n imagine what kind o' damage _she_ did.  Den Cable and his team hit de warpath and all de other teams followed.  B'fore anyone knew it, we in de middle of a human-mutant war."  The Witness' expression twisted.  "An' all in your name, Professor."

Charles felt a chill creep up his spine.  To be the rallying point of a war that he had spent his entire life trying to avert... 

"How can I stop it?" 

"By stayin' alive, o'course."  

"Is Bishop the key to changing the future?"

The Witness shook his head.  "Non.  He done his part."

"Is Gambit?"

The Witness gave him an approving nod.  "Oui, Professor.  Y' just got t' know how to ask de right questions."


	6. [6]

Chapter 6

Rain sheeted down outside the high windows that lined Professor Xavier's study.  Remy had a sneaking suspicion that had more to do with Storm's mood than she would admit.  He hated to do it to her, but. . . 

"No," he said.  The argument was getting old already.    

The professor sighed.  "I cannot claim that it would _not_ be a violation of your privacy, but under the circumstances I would think--"  

"No!  No circumstances, Professor."  Remy stared at the rain.  He was afraid if he turned around, they would all be able to tell just how frightened he was.   

"Remy--" Ororo began, but stopped when he did not look at her.          

"We all got secrets, Cajun."  Logan leaned back in his chair and watched him through slitted eyes.  It was the first time he had spoken.  "I don't much like havin' my mind sorted through, either, but the Prof's no snoop.  You know that."            

_Oui, mon ami.  I know dat_, he thought.  But that wasn't the point, and he didn't know how to explain what was.  "I didn'… I won'… _ever_… do anyt'ing to hurt de X-men.  Y' have t' believe dat."  It was a last ditch plea.          

"Actually, I do," Professor Xavier told him.       

Remy half turned, surprised.    "But--"   

"_But_ based on some things the Witness has said, I think you may know a great deal more about all of this than you realize.  I am not interested in placing blame of any sort, Remy.  I simply want to protect the X-men."  The professor gazed steadily at him.  There was no compromise in his voice, but Remy knew that he was trying to be reasonable.  And for all the reasons not to, Remy found that he wanted to do what the professor asked.       

"I'm sorry, Professor," he finally answered.  "No.  I-- I'll leave, if dat's what you want..."  The words hurt more than Remy thought possible.

A murmur of shock ran through the assembled X-men.  The professor opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Psylocke stepped forward.

"Gambit, you're being unreasonable."  She walked up behind him and stood with her arms crossed, clearly disapproving.

"You one t' talk, chere."  He watched her dim reflection in the window.  "You refused t' let de Professor scan y' mind when Revanche showed up."

She cocked her head.  "Yes, I did.  Because I was frightened.  I was afraid that if the Professor scanned my mind he would discover that I was really only Kwannon, and the person I wanted to be, Elizabeth, was just a ghost.  I didn't want to face that possibility."

"I was wrong."  She shrugged.  "I probably would have saved myself a lot of grief if I'd simply let him show me the truth then, instead of discovering it for myself in Japan."  She watched Remy, waiting to see if he was going to acknowledge her point.  Remy closed his eyes and looked away.  

After a moment, Psylocke continued. "To be honest, I think you were all fools to let Revanche and myself live in this house, not knowing who was who.  I am sorry, but it _is _necessary."

Remy felt the flash of motion through his mutant power.  He opened his eyes to the reflected image of Psylocke's hand sweeping down at him, psychic blade glowing.  Trapped between the thick-paned glass and the warrior telepath, he had little room to maneuver.  Still, he dove to the side, praying that his reflexes would be fast enough.  But he had reacted just a little too slowly.  Her blade pierced his skull, and her psychic presence dove into his mind with the precision of the knife it resembled.

"NOOOOOO!"  Pain exploded in his head, excruciating in its intensity.  He was unaware as his cry turned into a scream, and even less so as Elizabeth Braddock echoed him, her eyes wide with agony.  All he was aware of was the relentless hurricane force that shredded mind and soul, sucking him down into a blackness so deep, so painful, that he knew he would never escape it.  He had no control over the forces that spiraled outward from him.  There was nothing except the pain.  It was cold and loss, hate and hurt, and an emptiness that felt like it would extinguish his soul.  He clawed desperately at the darkness, but was sucked down, down, down.  For one small moment, he thought he heard a man's voice, a small piece of sanity in the whirlwind, but when he tried to grab on to it, it was gone, and the violent dark took him completely.

#

"Ungh."  Jean couldn't help her groan as she dropped to her knees beside Psylocke.  She pressed the heel of one hand against her forehead, as if she could somehow push her terrific headache back into a more manageable form.  She did a cursory scan to confirm what she was already fairly sure of.

"I was able to shield her, for the most part.  She should be fine, Charles."  She looked up at Xavier, who was gingerly cradling his own head.

"What about Remy?"  Rogue's gaze darted between them.  She held his limp form in her arms, her eyes shining with unspilled tears.

The professor straightened slowly.  "I don't know, Rogue.  I think I was able to reach him in time, but I don't dare try to check.  I would probably incite another seizure."

"Seizure?"  She looked down at Remy's still form.

"For lack of a better term.  A telepathic seizure."

Logan snorted.  "The Cajun's a spook?  That sure explains some things."

"Logan, please."  Jean was tired, and the reference irritated her.  "Remy _is _a telepath, and a powerful one.  But that part of his mind is so badly damaged that even a gentle probe might have set this off.  Elizabeth's attack, being so violent, just... snapped whatever restraints he had.  That psi blast…."  She shook her head.  "I don't think I ever want to meet whatever could have hurt him so badly as to cause _that_.  If I hadn't been there to reinforce Betsy's shields, she would most likely be dead."

Silence followed her words.  After a few moments, Scott walked over to his wife and helped her to stand.  They both looked down at Gambit.

"I guess he had a good reason, after all," Scott said quietly.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

#

The man stands before the fireplace, contemplating the flames.  He is dressed elegantly in black and navy.  His gray hair is drawn back in a black band.  It is only here, in the privacy of his personal suites, that he drops his madman pretense.  Only here, that he is still Remy LeBeau.

He pours himself a brandy.  The amber liquid glows in the firelight.  Silently, he toasts the woman who looks down from her place above the mantle.  The portrait is, without doubt, the gem of his collection.  It would be worth millions if anyone knew it existed.  He has never been very fond of X-art, as it is labeled.  Having known the real things, he has little appreciation for the various artist's impressions-- and misimpressions.  But the man who painted that portrait had somehow known who the real X-men were, despite the fact that he had not even been born until twenty years after their deaths.  His work had become legendary.

The woman over the mantle sits in a bed of burgundy satin.  Modestly, she covers herself with a swath of the rich cloth, its dark color setting off the paleness of her bare skin and the signature white streak in her red hair.  She is flushed, as if her lover has recently been with her, and she looks down out of the painting with a secretive smile.

The man turns as the door opens behind him.  Shackle stands in the doorway.

"Genesis is here.  Should I send him in?"  She glances at the painting without effect.  It means nothing to her.

"Oui, chile."

Shackle steps aside, and a man enters.  He is aging as well, though not nearly as fast as one might expect.  He crosses the room with long strides and extends his hand.

"I came like you asked, Remy.  It's been a long time."  His smile is genuine.

"So it has, mon ami."  Remy takes the proffered hand.  "Brandy?"

Genesis nods and accepts the glass Remy hands him.  "So what do you want?  It's a risk for me to come here, you know."

"De endgame's on us, Forge.  Thought y'd want t' be here."  Remy sips his drink.

The mutant once known as Forge laughs.  "So the impossible's really going to happen?"

Red eyes flash over the rim of the glass.  "If de last few pieces fall into place."


	7. [7]

Chapter 7

Charles Xavier woke with a start.  He had been dozing, chin propped in hand.  Rogue glanced up at him.  Her eyes were reddened and puffy from lack of sleep.

_Not even the proverbial wild horses_, he thought as he looked at her.  She was at least taking this better than Gambit's kiss-induced coma earlier that year, though that was unsurprising.  She sat next to the bed with Gambit's hand wrapped in her two, waiting.

Charles rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work the kinks out.  The clock on the wall read a few minutes after ten. It was morning again, three days after Gambit's collapse.

"Rogue, you really ought to get some sleep," he told her.  "You can bring a couch in here if you want.  I don't think Hank would mind, and I certainly don't."

She smiled wanly.  "Thanks, Professuh.  But ah think ah'd rather just--" She broke off, eyes narrowing.  "Ya got some nerve, comin' in here," she said to the woman who entered the room.

Charles sighed inwardly.  He had felt Psylocke approaching.  Now she stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on Archangel.  One silvered wing wrapped protectively around her.

"You should not be out of bed, Elizabeth."  She had been conscious for nearly a day, but was still recuperating.  _And you cerainly shouldn't be_ here.  But he kept that thought to himself.  At the moment, she was avoiding telepathic contact, which he was inclined to agree with for the sake of her mental health.

Elizabeth glanced at the figure on the bed, eyes shadowed.  "I just wanted to tell you that you can go in a little ways-- without doing any damage."  She looked down at the floor. Charles could feel the hot bite of her shame.  "His defenses will slam into place, but you can at least make contact."

"You knew he was a telepath?" Charles couldn't help the accusation in his tone.

"I.... suspected."  She continued to stare at the floor.

"Y'all _suspected_?!  An' ya just _attacked_ him?  Ya couldn'ta _said_ somethin' first an' given him a chance ta explain?"  Rogue hovered a few feet off of the floor.  Her hands were balled into fists, and she looked very ready for a fight.

Betsy looked up at her and then quickly away.  Her silence was answer enough.  Warren's wings were partially unfurled in the tight space, and Charles could see the gleaming tips of flechettes ready to launch.  And there _he_ was, sitting squarely in the middle of it all, which was probably why the situation had not yet dissolved into violence.

"Rogue!  Warren!  I want you both to calm down, understood?"  He pinned each of them in turn with his sternest professorial stare.  The silver wings twitched, lowered a fraction.  Rogue shifted to a less aggressive stance.  It wasn't much, but Charles supposed it would have to do.

"Now, Elizabeth, please explain yourself."  All eyes turned toward the bent head.

She did not look up.  "It was just after-- after Israel."  Rogue's eyes widened at the reference.  "When Gambit first woke up.  He was hardly conscious-- just staggering through the house looking for Rogue.  I felt his presence just before he destroyed the door to the danger room, but at that instant I didn't know it was him.  I felt desperation, and pain and fear, but also something much darker-- colder. 

"Several hours later, while he was sleeping, I... probed him."  She winced as if she could feel Charles' anger at her admission.  "There was something very dark inside him, Charles.  I don't know what, but it was obvious from his mindscape.  That was about when he noticed me, so I withdrew.  I never tried to enter his mind again.

"But with everything that has happened recently, I thought it was too important to know the truth.  I'm sorry."

"The _truth_!"  Rogue was up in arms again.  "Was it worth his life?"  

"Was it worth his love?" Elizabeth retorted. She stared directly at Rogue.  "That's why you broke up, isn't it?  Because he wouldn't tell you the truth?"

Rogue jerked as if she'd been shot.  The two women stared at each other in angry silence.

"Elizabeth, you should return to bed."  Charles stated it as a request, but it was clearly an order.  "We can talk more later."  It would be wise to separate Psylocke and Rogue before the argument escalated.  They would only hurt each other further.  And if Gambit was at all sensitive to what was going on around him, he didn't need that either.

Warren urged Betsy out into the hall, talking quietly to her.  She seemed willing enough to go with him.  When they were gone, Rogue sank to the floor.  Her boot heels clicked hollowly on the metal floor as she landed.  Charles could tell she was trying not to cry.    

He sent out a mental call, and was immediately answered.  A few minutes later, Logan walked in.

"C'mon, darlin'."  He caught Rogue's elbow, and gently tried to draw her toward the door.  "You need some fresh air."

She shook her head stubbornly, resisting his pull.  "Ah ain't goin' t' leave him, Logan."

"Who said anything 'bout leavin'?  We'll just go sit out on the porch for a while.  Chuck here'll call ya if anything changes.  Fast as you c'n fly, you'll be here in a couple a seconds."

Rogue was unconvinced.  

"Rogue, you are highly distraught. If Remy were to wake right now, that would probably upset him, and that is the last thing he needs.  The best thing you can do for him right now is to go with Logan.  Get some food, some rest--" Charles smiled.  "And some fresh air."

He could see her resistance wilting.  With a last look at Gambit, she allowed Logan to escort her from the room.

Charles allowed himself a drawn-out sigh.  As soon as Jean arrived, he would try to contact Gambit.  The monitor by the bed showed Remy's brainwave pattern to be strong, if irregular.  He simply hadn't been willing to take the risk before.  But with Elizabeth's experiences in mind, it seemed a careful probe might be successful.  He suppressed his anger at her actions.  That was something he would have to deal with later.  Gambit would need him to be as calm, and as gentle, as possible.

#

Jean gave Charles' hand an encouraging squeeze.  He returned it as they waited for the disorientation to pass.  There was always a little bit-- the imperfect mesh of several minds as they tried to adjust to a foreign thought process.  Jean gasped as they "arrived" and were immediately drenched in icy rain.  Charles wiped the water out of his eyes.  They had agreed not to meddle any more than absolutely necessary, so he forbore creating protection for them from the rain.  For now, at least.  It was _cold_.

"Does it get this cold in New Orleans?" Jean asked, looking around.  She had her arms folded up with her hands tucked up into her armpits. The city around them was dark and silent, though there were lights off in the distance.

"Sometimes.  In the winter.  The temperature really isn't all that low.  It's just the rain that makes it seem cold."  Charles, too, studied the narrow street on which they found themselves.  A lamp burned at the end of the street, but the illumination seemed to huddle around the tall iron post.  It did not reach them.  The other end of the street disappeared into shadow.  The storefront windows yawned like empty mouths all around them.

"Which way?"

"I suppose we should assume the worst."  Charles indicated the shadows.  Instinct told him they would not find Gambit among the lights and jazz bands, if such existed in this version of the city.  Together they walked down the street.  Their feet thumped dully on the cobblestones.

As they walked, Charles became aware of other sounds.  A hollow whisper of wind around the corners.  The rattle of the rain on the roofs.  A dog barking in the distance.  He found their presences reassuring.  This place was dark and cold, but not unusually so for a rainy night.  It seemed more and more to be just a normal cityscape.  He took it to be an encouraging sign.

They walked for a long time through the narrow streets.  As always, Charles' astral self was unencumbered by his physical handicap.  They met nothing living, and Charles was beginning to wonder if he had not chosen the wrong direction, after all.  Either that, or his deeper fears were realized and Remy was in far more trouble than he had hoped.

"Hey!"  The sudden exclamation from Jean startled him.

"What is it?"

She approached a ragged staircase that gave access to a door approximately four feet above the level of the street.  "I'd swear we've passed this door before.  But I know this is a new street."  The door was made of gray metal and sat flush with the side of the building.

"Hmm.  Well, perhaps we are supposed to go in."  Charles carefully climbed the stairs, which slanted at a horrible angle, and tried the door handle.  It was locked.  He stepped back a short pace and studied the door, hands on hips.  

"I hate to think we're expected to pick the lock," he observed.  In the midst of his words he heard a tiny sound.  It had come from beneath him.  Looking down, he saw a flicker of motion through the cracks between the boards where he stood.  

He turned to catch Jean's attention, pointed down.  Her eyebrows rose.  She squatted where she was, and peered under the staircase.  Pressed back into the darkest corner was a small child.  Jean blinked in surprise.  She couldn't make out any of its features, but the huddled form simply couldn't be anything else.

"Hi," she said quietly.  The child didn't move.

"My name's Jean.  What's yours?"  Jean could see a spot of brightness as the little light reflected from his-- her?-- eyes.

She slowly extended her hand.  "Come here, little one.  I won't hurt you."  She tried to use her most coaxing tone.  After a moment, she heard a distinctive child's snuffle, and the little figure began to climb out of the tight morass of lumber.  It was a boy, she saw as he emerged, perhaps four or five years old.  He was soaking wet and shivering, dressed in the ragged remains of a blue sleeper.  With a sob, he launched himself into her arms, clinging with desperate strength.

She held him tightly for a while, then settled him in her lap with his head tucked against her shoulder.  Charles came down the stairs and approached them.  The boy's sobs were easing. Jean took the moment to tilt his head back and wipe the tears away, murmuring soft comforts.  Bright blue eyes stared at her, framed by unruly red hair.  It took only a moment for her to recognize him.

She looked up at Charles.  "It's Remy."

The boy's eyes widened at his name.

Charles was not surprised.  Finding a child version of an injured psyche was not unusual.  "Hello, Remy," he said, hunkering down beside them.  "Do you know who I am?"

The boy shook his head.  "I want to go home," he said.  Charles stared at him in stunned surprise, ignoring Jean's puzzled look.  He had spoken in perfect Shi'ar.


	8. [8]

Chapter 8

"How literal is this representation?"  Jean continued to stroke the child Remy's hair as she talked to Charles.  The boy's shivering had eased, and she was becoming aware of other things.  Like how painfully thin he was.  Most boys this age were wiry little rakes anyway, but she could feel each rib where it pressed against her.  This child was sliding into starvation.

Charles looked around.  "We know that Remy was orphaned-- or abandoned-- at an early age.  I would not be surprised if that part is a literal copy of his memories.  His ability to speak Shi'ar obviously can't be.  I'm not certain how that fits in.  He does understand English in this representation."

He paused.  "You do realize that we can't do anything for him here.  We haven't found Gambit, just a piece of his memories."

Jean felt a sharp pang of sorrow as she looked down at the child in her arms.  

"I know."  She looked back up at Charles.  "How could someone do this to a child?"

Charles shook his head.  "We can only hope his parents had no choice.  Come, we should continue."  He put a hand under her elbow to help her stand.

Jean reluctantly moved Remy out of her lap.  She stroked his face and tried to summon a smile.  

"I'm sorry, little one."  

She stood.  The child stared at her for a moment, fear and loss written into his small face.  Then he bolted back into his hiding place under the stairs.  Jean swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

"How sad."

"Yes."  Charles caught her hand in his.  "But it is part of a past we cannot change."  He paused, sorting his thoughts.  

"It does illuminate a great deal about Remy's character.  I never realized how hard it must be for him to trust.  A small child on the streets would have been an easy target for a lot of different kinds of people.  Yet he survived somehow, and is remarkably sane, all things considered."

Jean nodded.  "It does feel different than when we went into Logan's mind after he was injured.  There, we were trespassing.  I was afraid it would be the same with Remy, as private a person as he is.  But he seems to be willing to have us here."

"I have often felt that Remy would like to share his life with us--"

"But doesn't dare?  Except for Ororo and Rogue, of course.  And even then, I don't think he has told either of them very much about himself.  Ororo doesn't care-- she has said as much.  And Rogue... well,"  Jean shrugged.  She wasn't certain what to think about their current estrangement.  Bobby had said very little when he returned from Seattle without either Rogue or Gambit.

They were walking again, delving even further into this mind-version of New Orleans.  Jean wasn't familiar enough with the real thing to know if there were any differences, or to know where they were going.  Charles seemed to be wandering aimlessly.

"Do you know where we're going?" she asked.

"Not really.  I am hoping that Gambit will present us with some kind of clue as to where we should go.  As you noted, we are welcome here.  He seems to want our help, but I don't know how much ability he has to reach out to us.  I'm just trying to keep my eyes open."

"Any ideas yet why he was speaking Shi'ar?"

Charles' expression quirked.  "Well, he has absorbed the language in the past.  He has also been to the Shi'ar homeworld with the X-men.  All I can guess is that it's some kind of carry over from that."

Jean read his expression and smiled.  "In other words, not really."

Charles returned her smile. 

They continued on.  They were in a more populated part of the city now.  People occasionally passed them, intent on their own business.  Lights burned in some of the windows, though the yellow warmth still did not seem to reach very far into the streets.  Prostitutes lounged on the corners, umbrellas raised against the rain.  Cars drove past, windows dark.  The tires made familiar hissing sounds on the wet streets.

"Hey, miseur!"  The sudden voice startled them both.  Jean spotted the owner of the voice, a boy of about seven or eight. He was perched on a stack of wooden crates at the mouth of the alley they were just passing.  

"Dis no way t' be treat'n de petite belle, neh?"  He indicated the rain.

Jean and Charles shared hopeful looks.  It was Remy again.  He was still painfully thin, but seemed healthy enough.  Jean hid her amusement at the strong maternal instinct he evoked.  She could just imagine the adult Remy's reaction if she ever mentioned "maternal instincts" in conjunction with himself.  Her husband would likely throw a small fit.

"Y' be need'n a place out o' de rain, oui?  I c'n take you an' de belle someplace nice.  Safe n' dry, like de lady deserve.  'Course, I gotta ask a small finders fee."  The boy watched them with all appearances of helpful solicitude.  

Jean was forced to hide another smile.  _No wonder you're such a scoundrel, Remy_.

Charles watched the boy with interest.  "Actually, we're looking for someone.  Maybe you can help us find him."

Now that was an interesting tack to take, Jean thought.

The boy's gaze became calculating.  "Maybe.  Who de lucky homme?"  He was watching Charles intently.

"A thief.  His name is Gambit."

Jean saw the flicker of recognition in the blue eyes.  "Gon' cost you, miseur."

"How much?"

Jean's mind wandered as they negotiated.  The detail of the city around them was truly amazing.  Most of the time, a person's projected subconscious was much more of a fantasy setting, or at least a mesh of many realities.  She had often encountered mindscapes filled with bizarre creatures, where the basic laws of physics did not apply.  But this city seemed completely normal.  She wasn't certain if that indicated a high level of logical thinking on Remy's part, or if, perhaps, he'd simply had his illusions stripped away at such an early age that this hard realism was all that remained.  He certainly didn't _act _like someone completely grounded in reality.  She would have expected this kind of mindscape from Bishop, not Gambit.  Still, what Remy really thought about most things was an acknowledged mystery.

The boy jumped down from his perch and started off.  Jean shook off her introspection and followed with Charles.

"Do you think this will work?" she asked him.

Charles shrugged.  "It seemed like the thing to do.  We are making progress, at least."

They followed their guide onward.  The city remained dark, but the rain had tapered off, Jean noticed.  And it was warmer.  That might indicate a shift in seasons, if what they saw was based on Gambit's actual memories.

Jean was beginning to get a feel for their direction in the winding city streets.  It seemed as if the streets were beginning to orient toward a central point, some distance ahead of them.  They were finally getting close-- to something important, anyway.

The boy Remy froze, dropping into a defensive crouch.  Jean and Charles looked around in surprise as figures emerged from the darkness, surrounding them.  Charles grabbed her arm.

"This is a real memory.  They aren't seeing us."  He indicated the seven boys that now ringed them.  The boys were obviously members of a gang, ranging in age from about twelve to seventeen or so.  The leader was a lanky type, with long dirt blonde hair.  He was dressed in brown leather and held a baseball bat that whose end had been sharpened to a point.  As Charles had observed, they paid no attention to the two adults, but looked straight through them to the object of their interest.  

Remy turned slowly, watching the tightening circle.

"I don't like this, Charles," Jean said.  But she knew there was nothing either of them could do.  Except maybe to close their eyes.  "We shouldn't be here.  This is private."

Charles turned to look at her.  "I know.  But I don't want to lose our guide if we don't have to.  Gambit is still lost in here somewhere."

"Well, well.  Lookee what we got here."  The leader was tapping the bat into the palm of his hand.  "T'ought y' got away wit it, eh, kid?"

Trapped inside the circle, Remy didn't respond.

The leader's voice turned deadly serious. "Well, I got a message for y': T'ink again." 

The circle closed quickly as the boys moved in.  Jean knew they were intent on murder. She turned her head against Charles' shoulder, though she continued to watch out of the corner of her eye.

Remy spun inside the circle and then launched himself at one of the gang members, arms extended.  Jean could see the long shard of glass he held in one hand, probably what passed for a knife.  The boy's surprised expression told her he didn't expect this prey to attack.  He threw up his hands with a shout as Remy collided with him.  Both went down in a tangled heap then Remy was rolling to his feet.  He bolted for a nearby drainpipe and was a story up before the other boys realized what was happening.  

After a few moments of confusion and shouting, several of the gang members started up a fire escape on the same building.  Remy had just reached the roof and was pulling himself up over the ledge.  Jean saw the small form disappear from view and silently wished him luck.  Then she returned her attention to the boys still gathered on the street.  They were looking down at the one Remy had attacked.  As they moved around, Jean got a glimpse of the prone form.  He was dead, she knew immediately, with the ragged glass fragment protruding from his throat.  Blood pooled on the street and ran down the cracks between the cobblestones.  The light from a window above reflected dimly in the spreading blood.  Jean shivered.

She did not resist as Charles drew her away from the scene.

#

Charles held on to Jean's arm as they walked quickly away from the dead boy lying on the street.  He felt chilled by the ruthless savagery of what could really only be considered children.  It was no wonder Gambit showed such nonchalance toward death.  Charles had always been bothered by that attitude-- though Gambit seemed willing to respect his wishes and avoid killing the enemies he fought whenever possible.  And not that Gambit had ever seemed to enjoy killing.  It was just that he didn't seem to care one way or the other.  Charles wasn't certain it was possible _not_ to have some kind of emotional reaction to taking another's life.  Yet he wondered, if he had grown up in such circumstances, would he have any of the moral standards that he considered to be such an integral part of himself?

He and Jean turned down a new street.  They had both noticed the way the streets were beginning to all point in the same direction, and this was a broad thoroughfare that might give them a more direct route.  As they walked, more lights began to appear.  Strings of white and colored lights were wrapped around some of the second floor balconies. Paper lanterns hung from awnings and were strung between lamp posts.  More people began to emerge, some sitting at outdoor tables, others gathered in the streets.  The mood was festive, the night bright.  Music wafted out of the doorways and spilled over into the street.  This was the image of New Orleans Charles was familiar with.  His mood lifted.

Loud laughter drew his attention upward.  A group of teenagers were gathered on one of the balconies.  From their dress and the music that blared from the doorway behind them, it was obvious that the party was well under way.  One of the girls turned sharply, her braids fanning out behind her head.  Charles stopped and watched more closely.  She was laughing.  One of the boys turned her back towards him and kissed her deeply.  Even in profile, his red hair and angular features were unmistakable.  Remy and Belledonna.  They paid no attention to the two who watched them from below.

After a while Charles shrugged and moved on.  Next to him, Jean's expression was disapproving.  He looked at her questioningly.

"They're so young," she supplied by way of an explanation.  "If that was my daughter, I think I'd kill him."

Charles couldn't help but chuckle.  "You weren't more than a year or two older when you started dating Scott."

Jean flushed and smiled ruefully.  "I'm showing my age, aren't I?"

They walked on. The lights and music quickly faded behind them.  The city returned to darkness and silence.  The buildings were taller here, and the street seemed to narrow.  After a little while, there were no more cross streets, and they were left with only one direction to go.

"I think we're almost there."  Charles could see that the buildings ended a short ways ahead, but couldn't tell what lay beyond that point.  He was unprepared for what they found when they reached the end of the street.

The street emptied into a huge circular court.  Other streets entered as theirs did, at intervals around the circle.  The entire thing was paved with bricks. In the center of the court, a huge black tree grew.  The trunk would take three people joined hand in hand to reach around it.  Uprooted bricks lay in haphazard piles around the base.  The branches of the tree exploded outward, obscuring any view of the sky.  They waved wildly, looking like tentacles, and made whistling noises from the speed of their passage through the air.  The tree had no leaves, Charles realized, nor did it look like it was meant to.  Instead, the surface of the trunk and branches were smooth and supple, almost like a snake's skin.  Occasionally, there was a sharp _crack_ as a branch struck another branch or the ground, and they could feel the vibration through the soles of their feet.

But what caused Charles' blood to run cold was the man suspended upside down in the middle of the tree.  Gambit's arms and legs were wrapped in the black tentacles, and the tattered remains of his combat uniform hung off of him in strips.  As they watched, one of the tentacles came whistling through, striking Gambit with the force of a whip.  A fresh line of blood appeared on top of the old.  Gambit did not respond.

Jean stood with a hand clapped over her mouth.  Her eyes were wide with horror.  Charles felt his own hopes sink.  The tree and Gambit's physical condition were a reflection of the damage to his psyche.  The tree was old and established, so the original trauma must have happened sometime well in the past, but Elizabeth's attack had reopened the wounds.  Gambit was once again subjected to whatever pain had ripped his telepathic abilities apart in the first place.

Very cautiously, Charles approached the tree.  He had no idea yet what it represented or what kind of harm it could do him, so he ducked as the tentacles flashed by overhead.  When he reached the trunk, he reached out and touched it, hoping to read something of its nature.

The world exploded into pain, like a spike driven through his skull.  He was aware of a black gulf that threatened to suck him down.  It was colder than anything he had ever experienced, and it seemed to simply draw the life out of his blood, absorbing him.  He felt like he was being sucked down into nothingness, as if everything he was, every thought, every hope, every dream, every heartbeat, were being torn out of him.

Charles yanked his hand away from the tree with a cry and collapsed to his knees, shuddering.  Now he understood what had happened to Gambit.  He felt Jean wrap her arms around him and looked up.

"It's death," he told her through chattering teeth.

"Whose?  Remy's?"  She looked up into the tree at the still form.  Her eyes were wild.

"No."  Charles closed his eyes and tried to force his body back under his control.  "Someone else's.  It doesn't matter who."

"What do you mean?"

"He killed someone-- telepathically-- and couldn't drop the link.  This is what the feedback did to him."  Charles indicated the black tree.

"He murdered--" Jean was pale.

"Murder or self-defense.  It doesn't make a difference."  Charles was beginning to get his breath back.  They both flinched as a tentacle slapped the ground near them, scarring the bricks.

Jean relaxed a little and gave Charles a hug.  It was probably more for her own reassurance, but he appreciated the comfort nonetheless.  "So how do we get him out of there?  Can the tree hurt us?"

"Yes.  But I can see no reason not to use our powers now.  We can't do Remy any further harm, I don't think."

Jean nodded.  Her telekinetic powers could release Remy from his prison without forcing either of them to make contact with the tree again.  It was odd, Charles thought, that they only seemed to be able to directly manipulate another's mind through the physical references they were familiar with.  Jean could easily use a form of her telekinetic powers here, or a sword, since she had practiced with one extensively, but she would find it far harder to grow wings or use an energy blast, or mimic some other kind of mutant power.  He watched as invisible hands uncoiled the thick black tendrils.  He could see the strain on Jean's face, and joined her in the effort.  Since telekinesis was not a physical power for him, it was a difficult endeavor, but he wasn't the premier telepath on the planet for nothing, he told himself as he gritted his teeth. 

Eventually, they brought the mangled body down to the ground.  Jean erected shields to ward off the tentacles that snapped at them.  Charles picked up Remy's limp form and they retreated from the tree.  As they did so, the world around them began to lose its solidity.  The physical was impinging on the mental-- Remy was regaining consciousness.  Charles allowed himself to release the body he held, which evaporated along with the rest of the city around him, and then followed the warm link back to his own body.


	9. [9]

Chapter 9

Rogue leaned her elbows on the edge of the sink, staring out the window.  From there she could see the mansion's wide manicured lawn with the basketball court off to one side.  Beyond that was a stand of trees.  She remembered taking a walk that had ended up within the shady knot of maple and birch.  How strange and exciting it had been to feel a pair of arms wrapped around her waist, and to sit in the dappled sunlight talking about nothing at all.  It had been one of those rare, almost perfect days.

She raised her coffee mug to her lips then made a face.  Cold.  She didn't know how long she had been standing there, staring at memories.  Long enough for her elbows to go numb, certainly.  She straightened and set her mug on the counter.  Her elbows flashed into pain at the sudden return of blood flow. Dhe rubbed them through the fabric of her sweatshirt.

_Serves ya right, gal_ she told herself.  _Since y'all are hidin' here instead of going in ta see him._  She had gone as far as the door, then stood there, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the murmur of voices.  His and Ororo's.  He had said something that made Ororo laugh her warm, gentle laugh.  Rogue had retreated from the happy sounds.  She told herself it was just because she didn't want to interrupt, but the truth was that she simply couldn't face the inevitable questions in his eyes.  The awkward silence.  Why had she been there when he first woke, but never after?  How did she feel about him?  They were questions Rogue had no answers for, and she was afraid she would only hurt him more by saying so.

With a sigh, she dumped the cold coffee in the sink.  Then anger at herself got the best of her and she slammed the mug down on the counter, shattering it.  _Coward!  After all the things Remy's been through, an' ya cain't even be his friend when he needs ya!_  She stared at the scattered fragments on the counter top.  Tears burned her eyes and eventually found their way to her cheeks.  Through her blurred vision, Rogue got out the trash can from under the sink and swept the remains of the mug off into it.  She put the can back in its place then leaned against the sink, crying quietly.

"Rogue?"

She looked up quickly then turned away, wiping at her eyes.  "Go 'way, Bobby."

"Sorry.  No deal."  His hand closed on her shoulder.  "'Sides, if I didn't rent out my shoulder from time to time, I'd never have any beer money."  

Rogue could imagine his goofy grin and smiled wanly.  "Ah guess ah can't let ya go without beer."  She turned and wrapper her arms around his neck, resting her cheek on his shoulder.  The tears continued to roll down her face.

"You want to tell me about it?" he asked after a while.

"Like ya gotta ask?"

Bobby sighed.  "Do you still love him, Rogue?"

Did she?  Was that the name for the pain inside her?  Or was it just guilt because she thought she _ought_ to love him, to be loyal despite the frightening, ugly thing she had inherited from his psyche when she kissed him that day in Israel?  

"Oookay," Bobby said when she didn't answer.  "Then I guess I'll have to tell you.  Yes, Rogue, you are absolutely, completely, head-over-heels in love with the guy.  And it's making you crazy."

Rogue drew back to stare at him in surprise.

"Well, it's obvious to everyone else in the house."  He sounded a bit defensive now.      

"What am ah going ta do?"

"I don't know.  What do you want to do?"

Rogue released him entirely. She leaned back against the sink, arms wrapped around herself.  What did she want, really?

"Ah just want ta know that ah wouldn't be makin' a mistake," she finally answered.  She sniffled and dabbed at her nose with the cuff of one sleeve.

"Well, I'm not exactly an expert, but I don't think there's any way to know that for sure.  I mean, who tries to make a relationship fail?  It just happens, sometimes.  As long as you're both trying, I don't think you can really ask anything more."  Bobby crossed his arms and studied her.

"You know, if you really want to know, maybe you should just ask him."

"Ask him?"  Rogue stared at him in disbelief.

"Sure."  Bobby shrugged.  "Then the only catch is that you've got to believe what he tells you."  He turned away, started to leave.

He threw her a glance over his shoulder.  "Y'know, I didn't think I'd ever be telling you to take Gambit's word for anything."

"So why are ya?  Ah thought ya didn't like him."

Bobby stopped and turned.  "And I still don't.  But I saw his face when you left.  I guess I'm just convinced that he really does care about you, so if that's what'll make you happy..."  He shrugged again, turned, and left.

Rogue stared at the empty doorway for a long time.  "Ask him..." she repeated softly.

#

Remy was sitting up in bed, talking with Storm, when Charles entered the room.  He looked a good deal better today, Charles thought.  At first, even the slightest movement of his head had caused excruciating pain, but that seemed to be fading.  Healing, perhaps.  Charles had not made any suggestions of a telepathic exam.  At least, not yet.  Time was probably the best medicine and he did not want to push.

Remy glanced at Charles as he slipped into the room.  His expression was not antagonistic, but he was very leery of telepaths in general.  Storm noticed the sudden tension and blithely ignored it.  She gave Charles a warm greeting as she stood.

"I expect the two of you would like to talk alone," she said.  Then she turned to Remy with a smile and patted his hand.  "I will return later."

"I be waitin', Stormy."  Remy matched her smile for a moment, but it faded as she left the room.

"How are you feeling, Remy?"  Charles moved his hoverchair into the space recently occupied by Storm.

"Hung over.  You figure it's time t' start askin' some questions, Professor?"  The red eyes met his directly, gave nothing away.

"I-- yes."  On the rare occasions when Gambit decided to be direct, he was _very_ direct.  Charles had forgotten.  For a moment, he studied his charge.  He could not begin to guess how Gambit felt about him.  He knew he was not a father-figure, as many of his original students viewed him.  Nor did he think Gambit really considered him to be a teacher.  He did seem to respect Charles' authority, but it seemed to be a matter of courtesy, since he was living in Charles' house, rather than a respect Charles had earned from him because of his life, his dream.  Of all the X-men, Gambit was the only one Charles would say did not believe that they could make a better world.  It was a philosophy he now understood, but it made him wonder why Remy stayed, and why he risked his life for a dream he didn't believe in.

Charles pushed his thoughts aside and returned to the real reason he had come.  "You can probably guess what I want to ask... " he began.

Remy shrugged.  "Sure, Professor.  Y' wan' t' know how my head got so messed up."  He rubbed his temple gingerly.  "Truth is, I don' know."

"You don't know?"  Charles knew his disbelief showed in his words, and he saw the crackle of defensive anger in Remy's eyes.

"I know what y' tol' me.  Dat I-- dat I killed somebody mind-t'-mind, like.  But I don' remember anyt'ing like that."

"Then why were you so afraid of a telepathic probe?"

Remy's jaw tightened as if he might deny having been afraid, but then he looked away.  When he spoke, his voice was low.

"Telepath tried t' probe me once b'fore."

 "What happened?" Charles asked.

For a moment, he didn't think Gambit was going to answer, but he did, and Charles realized that, for all of his carefully maintained distance, Remy desperately needed someone to talk to.

"I woke up in a hospital.  Didn' know who I was or anyt'ing.  Cops kept tryin' t' ask me questions, 'cause dey found me next t' a corpse... " He paused, struggling for words.  "It was like dere was dis-- hole-- in my mind, kept tryin' t' suck me down.  It was... it was cold as death, like de voodoo monsters in de stories maman Sassa used t' tell... "  Remy was no longer paying any attention to Charles.  "Dey kept me in de hospital f' three, four months, 'til I remembered enough t' break out.  Even den, it was a long time 'fore de nightmares went away... 'til I felt like I wasn' goin' crazy anymore."

He looked up at Charles.  "It's better dis time.  You an' Jeannie been shieldin' me, neh?"

"Yes, we have."

Remy nodded.  "I c'n feel her, sometimes."  Something close to a smile crossed his lips.  "You too quiet."

Charles found himself oddly pleased by the compliment.  "I will tell Jean she needs to practice," he said, and was rewarded by a grin and a momentary lapse in Gambit's reserve.  Remy had appreciated the joke.

"When you're ready," he continued, "we can help you rebuild your shields.  Your defensive abilities are fairly well developed, out of necessity I would assume.  Have you had any training in your telepathic powers at all?"

"No."

"Hmmm."  Charles considered the possibilities.

"I'm not interested, Professor."  Remy must have been able to read the direction of his thoughts.

"There may be ways to work around the damage--"

"No."

Charles surrendered.  "Very well.  But bear in mind that you are leaving yourself open to an attack you don't have any defense for."

Fear flickered in Gambit's eyes.  He knew that very well.  Charles continued to watch him, hoping to catch some glimpse of why he would refuse.

Remy finally answered the unspoken question.  "It-- it hurts too much, Professor."

Charles nodded in sympathy.  He had had a taste of that pain.  He could hardly blame Remy for his refusal.  But that didn't make him any less fearful for the young man's safety.

#

The door slid aside, the customary whisper sounding inordinately loud to Rogue's ears.  She stepped inside and heard it slide shut behind her.  She was left only with silence and the rapid pounding of her heart.  The Witness stood at the center of the room, watching her without expression.

"So you come to see me after all, ma cherie," he said as she crossed the distance between them.

Rogue nodded and licked her lips nervously.  She had stopped several feet from him, and wasn't sure if she were standing too far away, or too close.  For her, he radiated the same magnetism as his younger counterpart, and Rogue was frightened by how she was drawn to him.  She kept remembering the things Bishop had told her, but she wanted to know the truth for herself.

"Ah-- ah wanted t' ask y'all about... us," she stammered.  She could not look him directly in the eyes and so found herself staring straight ahead.  Her eyes were in line with the clasp of his cloak, and she stared at the twist of gold for a long time before she recognized it-- it was an elongated spade, tied in a knot.  She wondered briefly what it might symbolize, but his words jerked her back to the present.

"Still lookin' f' guarantees, chere?  I can't give y' any o' dose.  You should know dat by now."  

"Ah know."  Still she couldn't look at him.

"Den what y' lookin' for here?"

She shook her head.  "Ah don't know.  Maybe ah shouldn't have come."  She started to turn away, but his hand closed on her arm.  Startled, she looked up at him and was instantly burned away by the intensity of his gaze.  She did not resist as he drew her close.

"Do y' really want t' know 'bout us?" he asked softly.

Rogue could only stare at him.  She knew he was just a hologram, made solid by Shi'ar technological magic, but the fingers that gripped her arm were warm through the fabric of her shirt.  She could see the flicker of his pulse beneath the pale skin of his throat, and she knew that if she leaned forward just so, she could kiss him.  But how could a lifeless hologram stir such reactions from her?  How could her skin ache, anticipating his touch?  How could his very presence send a flood of warmth through her if he wasn't even real?

The Witness seemed to have no trouble reading her emotions.  With the other hand he reached up to cup her cheek.  Rogue jerked her head away with a gasp.

"Can't hurt a hologram, chere," he chided her.  His cold expression had softened.  His fingers reached towards her once again.

Rogue froze, torn between stark terror and the desperate desire to feel his touch.  She knew-- she _knew_-- her powers couldn't affect him, but having hurt Remy so badly once, and with all of the things that had happened afterward, she wasn't certain she could surrender to another touch.  This man was older, yes, intimidating and powerful in ways she could not describe, but he was still Remy.  Her heart didn't see any difference.

Her indecision made the choice for her.  Rogue felt the warmth of skin against her face.  His thumb brushed across her cheek in a gentle caress.

"See, chere?"

Rogue covered his hand with her own and closed her eyes, pretending, just for a moment, that it was real.  Then she looked directly at him.

"Were we happy?" she asked.

"Oui."

She blinked.  "And?"  She had been hoping for a little more.

"What else y' want t' hear, girl?"  There was anger in his gaze now, though he still held her close.  "Dat y' were de only woman I ever really loved?  Dat I watched y' die in an instant?  Dat every... _day_... I remember de smell of y' hair and what it felt like t' make love t' you?"

"...make love...?"  Rogue was overwhelmed by the sudden rush of his emotions.

His next words were scathing.  "Y' didn't really t'ink it was y' _powers_ dat kept us apart f' so long, did ya?"  His grip on her arm tightened.

"Ah-- you're lyin'!"  She twisted out of his grasp, a cold knot in her stomach.

"Am I?"  The Witness folded his arms and watched her coolly.

"Ya know ah can't control mah powers!"

"I never said anyt'ing 'bout _controllin'_ your powers."  His expression quirked.  "Though y' did eventually get de hang o' dat, too."

Rogue was stunned.  She did not want to believe him.  The implications were too frightening.  "Ah don't believe ya," she said, but she knew the words lacked conviction.

"Really, chere?"  He closed the distance between them.  One arm circled her waist, his fingers tangling in her hair. The other hand tilted her chin up until their eyes met.  "Did y' ever consider just how _many_ ways dere are t' get around y' powers?"  His gaze held her more firmly than any adamantium bonds.

Rogue wanted to pull away-- to call him a liar and deny everything he said.  But the cold, sinking fear that had invaded her insides made it all too obvious he was telling the truth.  She could only stare at him as he leaned toward her.

"Don' be afraid," he whispered in the last moment before their lips met.  A core of warmth formed inside Rogue, radiating heat to every corner of her body.  She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, inhaling deeply the scents of warm silk and tobacco.

Suddenly, the arms that held her were gone. Rogue staggered.  There was nothing but empty space where the Witness had been.  Startled, she looked around.

"Rogue, what were you doing?"  Storm's voice came through the danger room's sound system.  

"What happened?"  She was too startled to register Ororo's presence immediately.       

"I shut down the program.  What were you doing?"  Rogue felt her cheeks flare.  She looked away from the figure that stood in the control room observation bubble.

"What were ya doin' spyin' on me?" she retorted.

"I was not spying on you."  Rogue could hear the forced patience in the other woman's voice.  "I just came in to do the checklist."

"Well, ah guess ya'd better get to it."  Rogue flew to the door, dipping through it as soon as it had opened wide enough.  She couldn't explain why she was suddenly so angry, except perhaps because Ororo had been witness to a dream she did not particularly want to share.


	10. [10]

Chapter 10

For the first time in a very long time, Remy LeBeau was content.  He was lying on his stomach on the sun-warmed wood of the dock, eyes closed, listening to the gentle lap of water beneath him.  The sun on his bare back was just this side of hot, perfect for lazing in.  For once, his head didn't hurt and the telepaths had decided to leave him alone.  Jean and the Professor had been his constant shadows for the last three weeks, and although he appreciated their concern, the constant attention had been wearing very hard on his nerves.

His mutant power picked up motion well behind him.  Someone was walking down the wide sloping lawn toward the lake.  Someone female, with a light, graceful walk.  That meant Ororo or Psylocke.  Rogue's stride was more forceful, Jean's more straightforward.  Remy sighed.  The odds were fifty-fifty, at least, that it would be someone he would enjoy talking to.

He opened his eyes a fraction, letting the bright light leak in.  Despite his sunglasses, the glare was painful.  Because his eyes were black, they picked up more light than most people's.  It gave him very good night sight, but also left him highly sensitive to bright lights and glare.  When his eyes had first changed, it had seemed like the world's colors had suddenly become washed out versions of their former selves.  It was something he had gotten used to, but he still made it a point not to go out in the sun without sunglasses if he could avoid it.

When his eyes had adjusted, he rolled over and sat up to meet his visitor.  Unfortunately, it was Elizabeth.  She was dressed down for once, in shorts and a plain T-shirt.  She was even barefoot.  It seemed like a deliberate effort to put Remy more at ease.  Not that it was going to do much good.  Remy watched her suspiciously.  His shields were rebuilt, those heavy, reassuring walls that kept the rest of the world out of his head, but he wasn't about to put all of his trust in them.  Elizabeth had shattered them once. He knew she could do so again.

His fingers brushed the small stash of cards he had with him as he stood.  He hadn't expected to need ammunition for sunbathing.  He studied Elizabeth as she approached.  He would be able to feel it if she were probing him, but a surface scan... He deliberately took a second look at her.  She was certainly a beautiful woman, exotic both for her Asian features and purple hair.  Remy had always found her attractive; especially the sensual allure Kwannon's personality had given her.  Kwannon, of course, had been far more interested in corrupting their oh-so-puritanical fearless leader than in someone as thoroughly corrupt as himself.  But he had always wondered if there might not have been a few tricks she could have shown him-- and vice versa.  Remy kept his grin to himself.  Elizabeth definitely wasn't scanning him.  She wouldn't have been able to completely hide her reaction to that particular line of thought.

"Hello, Remy."  Elizabeth had stopped at the edge of the dock.  She was trying not to alarm him.  She was well beyond the range in which she could wield her psychic knife.

"What do y' want, 'Lisabeth?"

"I came to apologize."  She met his gaze evenly, chin raised.

"What?  It take you three weeks t' get 'round to it?"  Remy had not actually been in the same room with her since the night she had attacked him.

Elizabeth's expression didn't change.  "No.  The Professor asked me to... keep my distance until your shields were back in place.  Today is the first time he has felt it would not pose a risk-- for either of us."

Remy considered her.  She was determined to confront him-- he could read that in the set of her shoulders and the defiant lift of her chin.  But he couldn't tell if the hard exterior covered true regret or something else.  If she really did want to apologize... he wasn't sure what to think.  Elizabeth was a proud woman.  For her to humble herself that much for the sake of someone like him...  He held his tongue and waited for her to continue.

Elizabeth took a deep breath.  "What I did was wrong, and I am _very_ sorry I hurt you.  I didn't mean to-- not like that, anyway."  She shifted uncomfortably.  "I was just afraid there was a Kwannon buried inside you."

"Kwannon?"  Remy wasn't certain he was following this turn in the conversation.

Elizabeth nodded.  "She was a part of me for a very long time, and there were a lot of things about her I liked and admired.  But she was also an assassin.  She _enjoyed_ killing.  If she had ever been completely in control of me, I might have killed people I care about.  People in this house.  Does that make any sense?"  Her hard exterior had softened somewhat and she watched Remy with a mute appeal in her eyes.

"I t'ink so."  Remy was finding it hard to hold on to his anger.  It was obvious that she had only wanted to protect the people she loved.  He was becoming hard pressed to say he wouldn't do the same thing if their situations had been reversed.  As much as he hated what she had done, he had to admit he understood her reasons, maybe even agreed with them.  He sighed.

"F'get about it, Betsy."

Hope flared in her eyes.  "Are you sure...?"

"Oui.  Dat's life, neh?"

"Yes."  A smile lifted the corners of her mouth.  "Thank you."  She turned to leave.

"'Lizabeth?"

She turned back to him.  "What?"

"You keep dat knife o' yours shut down around me, hear?"

Her smile died. She nodded.  She understood the warning.  He was willing to forgive, but he wasn't going to give her another chance to stab him in the back.  

With a last look in his direction, Elizabeth turned and walked back toward the house.  Remy watched her go, knowing he wasn't going to be able to recapture his earlier peace.  He considered lying back down in the sun, but abandoned the idea as hopeless.  Eventually he wandered off, making sure to go a different direction from the one Elizabeth had taken.

#

Charles Xavier studied the chessboard before him with interest.  It was not his turn, but he watched anyway, curious how the Witness would respond to his move.  The danger room had been converted into a copy of Charles' study, complete with a window that mimicked the scene outside of the real one.  Currently, a sliver of moonlight shone in on them, its light lost in the warm glow of the lamps.

Several of the X-men gathered around them, watching.  It had become something of an evening habit, though Charles would never admit how much he was enjoying himself.  He rarely found a challenging opponent for his favorite game.  Still, the true purpose was to glean information from their odd visitor.

The Witness stirred, slid his bishop across the squares.  Charles frowned.  That bishop had been pressuring his queen.  He did not immediately see the purpose in moving it.  He studied the board until the reason became clear.  The pattern the Witness was so carefully building would not coalesce for a while, but if it did, Charles would have little defense against it.  He began working on a counter strategy to block the attack.

Henry McCoy cleared his throat.  "So when did you take up this most august game?"  He was looking at the Witness.  "I am fairly sure our Gambit does not play."

The Witness smiled faintly.  "No, he doesn't.  Forge taught me... after de war."

"This human-mutant war you've mentioned?"  Cyclops didn't quite keep the suspicion out of his voice.  Besides Bishop, he was probably the most vocal about his mistrust of the Witness.

"Oui."  The Witness' eyes never left the game board.

"Then Forge survived the war."  Storm leaned forward in her chair.  "Did anyone else?"

The Witness glanced at her.  "A few, scattered across de globe.  We didn' find anyone else from de original teams, but a couple o' de kids up in Boston survived."

"Who is 'we'?"

"Me, Forge, Cable an' Irish."

"Cable.."  It was not really a comment, just a mother's reaction to hearing that her son had survived.  Jean and Scott shared an indecipherable personal look.

The Witness seemed to understand their desire to hear more.  He smiled.  "He de one ended up in charge after Eric died."

"Eric?  Magneto?"  Charles abandoned his thoughts of chess.

The Witness surveyed them.  "Maybe I start at de beginning, neh?"

Charles smiled.  "That might be a good idea."  His curiosity was piqued.  He knew some of the history of the human-mutant war from Bishop, but he was very interested to hear about it from someone who, purportedly, had been there.

"First of all," the Witness began, "it wasn' officially a war f' almost four years.  Jus' a mutant uprising, an' mostly jus' here in de States.  But den a lot o' countries started adoptin' isolation policies-- puttin' mutants in camps or deportin' dem-- and de violence spread.  We were fightin' t' liberate de camps and protect free mutants, but dere were a lot o' groups usin' terror tactics-- on both sides."

"Who's 'we'?"  Henry adjusted his glasses.

"At de time, it was mostly de folks from X-force and X-factor, wit' a few extras thrown in.  De Avengers were tangled up in legal stuff-- in prison, if I remember right.

"Den a bunch o' de first world countries-- de States, Europe, Japan, like dat-- formed somet'ing called de Human Consortium.  Dey turn it into a war for real.  Dey had de manpower, de weapons an' de organization... Woulda been over quick if Magneto hadn' stepped in.  He turn a bunch o' factions, lots o' folks who used t' be enemies, into a mutant army.  After dat, it jus' one big throw down."

"How long did it last?"  Storm asked.

"Eight years."

"And where were you during all this?"  Scott did not seem particularly impressed.

The Witness pinned him with a cold stare.  Charles knew Scott well enough to know that it was taking everything he had not to back down under that gaze.  Not that Charles blamed him.  Even he found the Witness to be intimidating, at times.

"I spent a couple o' years runnin' ground operations against de Consortium down around de Carolinas.  After dat, Eric figured my... particular... expertise would do more good f' de cause den anyt'ing I could accomplish in de field.  I ended up doin' spy stuff.  Espionage, sabotage, like dat.  Weapons systems schematics an' codes, supply routes, battle plans-- anyt'ing dat could slow de Consortium down."

There was a short pause.  Charles found himself chilled by the thought of just how dangerous a saboteur Gambit would probably be.  He decided to change the subject.

"How did Magneto die?"

The Witness laughed, a hard, brittle sound.  "Eric de one man I would have bet couldn' be suckered by a woman.  But he was, an' she put a knife in his heart in de middle o' de night."  He shrugged.  "Took me three months t' track her down.  She was a mutant, too."  His gaze grew distant with the memory.  Charles did not need to ask what had happened to her.

The Witness came back to himself and continued the story.  "Cable took over after Eric died.  He'd been in charge o' operations inside de States up t' dat point.  But losin' Magneto hurt too much.  Wit him, we maybe coulda won.  Wit'out him we had t' settle f' a conditional surrender-- an' a treaty.  Ev'rybody tired o' war by den.  

"Basically, dey made mutants a separate nation, sort o' like de Native Americans were back when.  Made us responsible f' creatin' a gov'ment f' ourselves.  It was supposed t' be a trap.  Mutants were supposed t' be completely separate from human laws-- so mutant kids couldn' go t' human schools, an' mutants couldn' be treated at human hospitals...   It was supposed t' be a quiet way t'sink mutants into poverty-- an' slavery, though nobody ever woulda called it dat."  The Witness' eyes burned with suppressed anger.

"What happened?"  This was something Bishop had know nothing about.  The history of the formation of the mutant government was shrouded in a great deal of mystery.

The Witness looked at Charles, stubborn defiance written in his expression.  It was so much like an expression he had occasionally seen on Gambit's face that Charles was taken aback.  

"We weren' about t' get beaten dat way," the Witness told him.  "Dere were only de four of us left from de original teams, but we figured we were enough t' give mutants a fair chance.  Cable was de leader-- ev'rybody knew him from de war.  Dey respected him, dey'd listen t' him.  Forge knew how t' run a gov'ment-- how t' set up social programs, start up an' staff de schools an' hospitals, an' Banshee knew how t' put together a law enforcement system."

"The X.S.E.?"

"Oui, Professor."

"What was your role in the new government?"  Charles couldn't see Gambit as an administrator of any kind.

The Witness grinned at him.  "My job was t' find de money t' make everyt'ing else happen."

Charles studied him, once again forced to re-evaluate this man.  "I see."

Scott frowned in disapproval.  "Do you really think that justifies you being a criminal?"

The Witness turned to Scott.  "De issue was savin' what was left o' de mutant race.  I don' particularly care if you t'ink what I did is justified or not."

"Good intentions don't give you the right to trample on people.  Didn't you learn anything from the X-men?"  The question was scathing.  Jean put a placating hand on her husband's arm, but Scott's gaze remained fixed on the Witness.

Charles imagined he saw real anger burning in the Witness' eyes.  "What I learned from de X-men... you never understand."  For a moment, he seemed to feel the weight of his age and the proud carriage wilted a little.

Scott didn't notice.  "Now wait a minute--!"

"Scott!"  Jean's grip on her husband tightened.

Scott turned an accusing look on his wife.  "Why are you defending him?  He's admitted to being the head of an organized crime syndicate.  How many people's lives do you think he's ruined?"

"Too many t' count," the Witness interjected calmly.  His expression was unreadable.

"You sound like you're _proud_ of it!"

"Not proud..."  The Witness rose and walked over to the window, stared out at the moonlit grounds.  "It was just de price had t' be paid."

Scott was furious.  "And who made you God, to go deciding other peoples' fates for them?"

The Witness did not turn around.  "Same person dat killed you an' y' wife an' y' chillen, Cyclops.  De same person dat killed de X-men."


	11. [11]

Chapter 11

Remy raised his bo staff a little higher. He spun it a hundred eighty degrees, then back, each movement fluid.  He could feel the impacts as the ends of the staff connected with the little metal disks that whizzed around him.  His powers were not being very cooperative today, so the intricate handwork and the interplay between himself, the staff and the projectiles was taking all of his attention.  Still, it felt good.  He was starting to feel like himself again-- Betsy's attack had had more of a physical impact on him than he liked to admit.

Something felt different.  A glance at the end of the staff as it spun by showed two of the little disks imbedded in the metal.  For a moment, he switched to a one-handed technique and drew a set of cards with the other hand.  He scattered the charged cards widely to clear a short window then brought the end of the staff down sharply on the ground.  The imbedded diskettes clattered to the floor.  Remy brought the staff back up and continued his routine.

After a while, the timer beeped. The shower of flying disks ended.  Remy wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the cuff of his coat and surveyed the wreckage.  Hundreds of the little disks lay scattered across the floor, dented and mangled.  He wasn't looking forward to sweeping them up.

_De exciting life of an X-Man_, he thought as he went to get the broom.  Truth be told, there was a lot more hard work than glamour to being an X-Man.  But he was beginning to discover that he _liked_ the feel of hard work.  Before joining the X-Men, Remy had never really worked for anything in his life.  He had scraped and scrounged and fought on the streets of New Orleans to stay alive, but that was just survival.  It wasn't something you felt good about, just something you did because the only alternative was death.  And then in the Thieves Guild, he had learned to simply take whatever he wanted.  There was a thrill, an exhilaration, to the pinch that still took his breath away, but it was always a short-lived sensation.  A fix.  Sabretooth's term "glow" often came to mind, which bothered Remy a lot.

But for the first time, really, Remy found satisfaction in what he was doing.  It was hard work-- not just the long hours of training and the fighting, but the effort to understand the X-Men-- why they did the things they did-- so that he could be that way, too, instead of just following Storm's example.  It was risking his life on the say-so of people he would have sneered at a couple of years earlier, and then risking his life for other people who probably wouldn't care-- and might not even know-- what he had done.  And as completely insane as it all sounded when he spelled it out to himself, he was happier than he had ever been in his life.  He was even happy to be sweeping little metal pieces off into the recycler, which, the part of him that was still a thief told him, was completely pathetic.

And although he was happy, he was also scared.  The Witness' presence, even though it was just a hologram, frightened him to the very core of his soul.  It meant that he, Remy, was important.  The things he did mattered, and would make a difference in the future of the planet.  And all Remy could think about was what would happen if he made the wrong choices.  He'd been making irresponsible, selfish choices all his life, believing that they didn't affect anyone but himself.  He couldn't delude himself into believing that any longer, and he _did not_ want to be responsible for the fates of the millions of people on the planet.  After hearing about the human-mutant war, he was only more convinced that, somehow, changing that future was going to fall squarely on him.  He didn't feel adequate to the job.  Saving the world was something for the Professor to do, or someone like Cyclops or Storm-- people who had adamantium in their spines and more courage than Remy had ever believed people _could_ have.  Not for street rats like him.

He put the broom away, looked over the room once again.  It was more training than any real desire to make sure the floor was spotless.  A thief should never leave any evidence of his presence.

_An dat's what y' are, boy.  Much as y' try t' be somet'ing else._ He looked around at the metal walls, smooth silver interrupted occasionally by doors and protuberances that hid weapons of various sorts.  Remy tried to imagine what it had looked like to Bishop when he had discovered the buried remains of the mansion.  He turned partway around.  The flat projection screen was behind that wall.  That was where he would have seen Jean's message... her final call for help before the traitor murdered her.  The thought of Jean-- who he had come to respect immensely-- dead, was disturbing.

"Computer," he voiced the thought quickly before courage deserted him, "run program Witness."

The familiar holographic shimmer became the Witness.  Remy found himself once again staring into his own face, worn by nearly a century of passing time.  The scary thing was he felt like he was looking at a stranger.

The Witness' eyebrows rose in interest as he registered his visitor's identity, but he said nothing, leaving Remy with the task of finding his voice and asking the questions that churned inside him.

"Is it-- is it really all goin' t' fall on me?  Savin' de X-Men?"

The Witness was wearing a poker face that even Remy couldn't decipher.  "Practically, yes," he answered.

"So what am I supposed t' do, so dat dey don' end up dead?"

The Witness shook his head.  "Sorry.  Can' tell y' dat."

Helpless anger hit Remy like a hammer blow.  "Den how am I supposed t' know what t' do?  Aren' y' here t' keep me from makin' de wrong choices?"

"Choices already been made, boy."  The calm finality of the statement made Remy's breath freeze in his chest.  "I'm here t' make sure y' pay de price."

"What price?  I haven' _done_ anyt'ing!"  Remy's fingers itched for the feel of his cards, as if his mutant power could somehow destroy this image and erase the words.  But he knew that his denial was hollow-- he had done too many things in the past to ever be innocent.  The terrifying possibility loomed in his mind.

"It isn'... Sinister?"  The name came out as a whisper.

The Witness' brows dipped in confusion, as if Remy had just made a right-angle turn and he hadn't quite caught up.  Then his expression cleared.

"Sinister's plans never included de deaths o' more dan a few X-Men.  Dead people don' have chillen, an' his cloning methods never were too reliable."  The Witness had regained his perfect composure.

Now it was Remy's turn to be confused.  "I don' understand."

"'Course not."

"Hey!"  Remy wasn't certain whether he should be insulted or not.

"You don' understand," the Witness began severely, "because y' not supposed to.  Dat's why de X-Men end up dead."

"But--?"

The Witness eyed him as if waiting to see what kind of a stupid question he would ask.  Remy wasn't sure if what came out was a stupid question or not, but it was the only thing he could think about.

"How am I supposed t' know what I gotta understand?"

The Witness smiled, but Remy couldn't tell what kind of emotion fueled it.  "You'll know when y' find somet'ing y' have t' trade y' life for."

"My life?  Dis t'ing goin' t' get me killed?"

The Witness didn't answer. His expression was answer enough.

Cold, choking fear closed in on Remy.  "Computer!  End program."  He stared at the empty space where the Witness had been.  He was shaking.

#

_Remy, what're y' doin'?_ he asked himself as he stared at the computer screen.  He was in the danger room observation booth. The screen showed that he had access to the directory he wanted.  No one had thought to put more than the ordinary protections on it.  Of course, the X-Men were only thinking about someone trying to hack in from the outside.  There were very few things in the computer system that all of the X-Men didn't have access to.  Hank's and the Professor's research files were the first things that sprang to mind in that category.  Like every other X-Man currently living in the mansion, Remy had the codes for all of the defense systems, tracking hardware, and all of the other interesting technology housed there.

Remy could easily access the directory holding the Witness' program.  Before he could talk himself out of it, Remy deleted the program and the data files, then overwrote that section of memory with something else.  That would make certain no one could retrieve it.  He did the same with the log of his conversation with the Witness.  Then he shut down the console and left.  There were several other copies of the program. He was going to have to do some thieving to get to them.

The house was quiet.  Cyclops and most of the blue team were out, checking into some trouble on the west coast.  The others were either sleeping or off on their own business.  The only person whose location Gambit didn't know was Bishop, but he ought to be out on the grounds somewhere.  Using Cerebro to locate him would only make Bishop suspicious when he checked the logs later, and that was the last thing Remy wanted.

Not that that was going to make much difference, if Remy were willing to admit it to himself.  Bishop would know it was him.  Everyone else would at least suspect.  And, honestly, what he was doing didn't make a whole lot of sense, even to him.  He just felt like he had to do something, fight back somehow against the forces whose only interest seemed to be in getting him killed.

He had realized a while back that the Witness had set him up.  Even if Elizabeth hadn't attacked him, the Professor would eventually have been talked into scanning him.  Either that, or he would have had to leave and abandon everything that had meaning to him.  Now the Witness seemed intent on getting him killed-- as if this were all some bizarre kind of suicide for reasons that Remy couldn't begin to fathom.  Still, if killing him were all that there was to saving the X-Men, the Witness  would simply have told Bishop who the traitor was, and Bishop would have blown him away the moment they met.  That only made sense.  But this cat and mouse game didn't make any sense. Remy didn't want to be caught up as a pawn in something he could neither understand nor control.  His chances of survival, and hopefully the X-Men's as well, were better if he just worked this all out on his own.

That was what he kept telling himself, anyway, as he worked the lock on Hank's door.  It was double-coded, with a numeric punch pad that was the bane of thieves everywhere.  Luckily, Remy was better than most thieves.  Punch pads were a pain, but not impossible.  He opened the door and stepped into the airlock.  The system for cycling through into the lab was automatic, so he stood still while the equipment scanned him and completed its decontamination routine.  Caught in the airlock, he felt exposed and vulnerable.  Eventually, the inner door slid open.  Hank's lab was silent and dark except for the glow of dimmed monitors that showed the current status of some experiment or another.  Pale lighting shone through the door leading to the Cray that backed up Cerebro when the computing requirements became too heavy.  Lettering on the door's window read "Climate Contolled Area".  Hank's experiments created a maze of delicate equipment, though Remy knew better than to touch any of that.  He headed for the solitary computer terminal that sat like a squat white frog on Hank's desk.

The monitor hummed softly as it came to life, counterpoint to the whir of the cooling fan on the back of the drives.  Remy went to work.  He was a good hacker and knew what he was looking for, so it didn't take very long.  He found both the original English and converted Shi'ar versions of the program and erased them.  Incredibly organized man that Hank was, there were also backup disks.  The CD's surfaces ran with liquid rainbows as the light caught them.  Since they didn't have anything else stored on them, a flash of Gambit's power took care of those.

And that left the paper copies.  That horrendous stack of pages they had written the original translation down on.  Most of it had been lines and lines of numbers-- data files.  Even Hank and the Professor would not have memorized all of that.  He began searching through the desk, careful not to disturb anything.  Finding nothing, he went on to the file cabinet, which was locked.  It took him less than a second to spring the primitive device. The top drawer opened with a metal scrape.  He flipped through the file folders with practiced ease, finding nothing.  The file he wanted was in the bottom drawer, thoughtfully stored under the label "Witness".  Remy pulled it out, closed the drawer and straightened.  His knee popped as he stood, sounding deafening in the quiet lab.  And on the heels of that noise came another-- the distinctive click and whine of Bishop's gun being readied.

"Hold it right there, LeBeau."

Remy froze, cursing himself for his inattention.  He should have heard the airlock cycling.  Bishop, he knew, had an itchy trigger finger.  

He put on his best smile, though Bishop couldn't see it.  "Wit a delivery like dat, Bishop, y' should be in de movies," he said. 

Remy turned around slowly, hands raised.  The file folder was still clenched in one of them.  Bishop blocked the doorway, the pale night-lighting in the hallway giving him the appearance of a halo.

"What are you doing here?"  The question was more of an accusation.  Unfortunately, a rather legitimate one.  Remy considered his alternatives.  Bishop would be hard to bluff, and it wasn't like he wouldn't know what Remy had done eventually.  So, perhaps the truth was in order.  Bishop certainly wouldn't be expecting him to play straight.

"If y' gotta know, Bish, I'm erasin' de Witness.  Y' want t' help?"

Bishop's eyes widened in surprise, and the tip of the gun muzzle quivered slightly.  Remy noted it with a sense of triumph.  He'd called that one right on.  Bishop had no idea what to make of the friendly question.

"I don't think that's a decision you should be making, LeBeau," he finally answered.  There was a heavy uncertainty in his voice.

"Why not?"  Remy still had not moved.  He didn't want to distract Bishop and break the moment.  Bishop was normally too suspicious to fall for this little mental trick.  It was about all Remy could do with his telepathic powers-- offensively, at least.  He continued, keeping his tone light, "I figure I've got as much right t' mess wit him as he has t' mess wit me.  'Sides, I t'ought you'd want t' see him gone.  He de one screwed y' life up, right?"

"Uh, yeah."  Bishop's eyes had glazed a little, and his hand was more relaxed on the gun, though he still had it trained on Gambit. 

Remy thought furiously.  Charming women was so much easier. He still didn't have a clue how he was going to get Bishop to move out of the doorway.

"Dis file's all dat's left of  him."  Remy didn't move his hand, but glanced in the folder's direction to draw Bishop's attention to it.  "Maybe y' wan' t' burn it y'self?  Not as good as de real t'ing, o' course, but it'd feel good, eh?"

The aim of the weapon shifted slightly.  Behind it, Bishop's expression darkened.  Then a beam of energy lanced out of the gun, striking the file folder squarely in the middle.  The bundle of papers exploded in Remy's hand. The high energy beam continued on past to strike the cabinet behind him.  Remy hit the floor with a startled cry, burning papers raining down around him.

"Not in de lab, y' fool!" he yelled.  A part of him was amazed.  Bishop must really have hated the Witness for his little suggestion to trigger that kind of reaction.  A red alarm light on the wall began to flash with the accompanying warning siren.

Bishop's own surprise turned into a roar of fury.  "You _tricked_ me!  Traitor!"

Remy scrabbled for purchase and leapt away as another beam of energy struck the place where he'd been laying.  He hit the ground behind one of the tables in the room and rolled to his feet.  Mystifying equipment lined the table, filled with various fluids that dripped and burbled.  He had a horrifying vision of what might happen if a blast shattered that delicate equipment-- Hank was working on the Legacy virus.  Those little vials could very well be full of the stuff.  Remy turned and ran straight for the wall beside the doorway, charged cards flying.  He knew he was giving Bishop one clear shot at him, but that beat dying slow of the Legacy in Remy's book.

The cards hit the wall and blew a sizable hole through the metal.  Remy felt a slicing pain as he dove through it and knew Bishop had tagged him somewhere.  He hit the floor of the hallway in a cloud of smoke and hot metal fragments.  The lights had come on in the hall in response to the alarm, but the smoke made everything hazy.  Remy had barely gotten to his feet when something slammed into him, carrying him to the ground.  He ducked the fist aimed at his face, taking a dizzying blow to the side of the head instead, and drove his own fist into Bishop's kidney.  He was in a bad position with Bishop essentially on top of him, so the blow didn't have a whole lot of force behind it, but it was enough to win a grunt of pain.  With the other hand, Remy grabbed Bishop's wrist, digging his thumb into the nerves to make him drop the gun.  The weapon fired twice though Remy had no idea where the beams might have ended up.  Bishop refused to let go of the gun and pulled their locked arms down far enough that he could bite Remy's hand.  Remy let go with a yell and made a grab for the gun.  He got his fingers on it just long enough to charge up a part of the barrel.  It exploded with very little oomph, but at least it twisted the metal enough to make the weapon unusable.  Bishop threw it away with a curse.

This was the kind of down-and-dirty street fighting Remy had grown up with, though it had been a while.  He was at a serious disadvantage in both weight and reach, but he'd grown up with that, too.  Oddly, he found himself loathe to pull a knife and put a quick end to the fight.  It didn't seem right, even though Bishop was doing his level best to kill him.  

Suddenly, there were more lights, and shouting.  Arms wrapped around Remy from behind, dragging him away.  Similar arms held Bishop.  It took Remy a moment to realize that it was Beast's furry arms that held him in an unbreakable bear hug.  The tight grip made the fresh burn on his ribs scream.  Rogue and Warren held Bishop.  The blue team must have gotten back, Remy thought.  Scott was there, still in uniform, along with the other members of his team.  The other X-Men were there, too, only in their pajamas.  The professor was the last to arrive.  His silk robe gleamed dully as the light struck it.  There was no mistaking the anger in his face.

Remy felt a flash of shame.  What _was_ he going to tell the Professor?  All of a sudden he felt like an idiot-- what in the world had made him think that destroying the Witness was going to make his life any better?  It was just another one of those stupid decisions he'd made, with no thought of the consequences to himself or anyone else.  Smoke roiled inside the lab, contained by a force field that had surrounded the room.  Remy knew that meant he and Bishop had released something dangerous in there, and now Cerebro was acting to contain it.  His stupidity could very well have just exposed every single one of the X-Men to the Legacy virus.  The thought of Rogue or Storm dying of the horrible disease chased the last of Remy's defiance away.

The professor seemed to follow Gambit's thought pattern as he studied him.  But when he spoke, his voice was rigid with suppressed anger.  "Very well.  I do not think I need to say anything at this point."  Remy felt the blood drain from his face.

Then the professor turned to Bishop.  "Would you care to explain what, exactly, is going on here?"

Even Bishop had the grace to look abashed.  "Sir, I found Gambit in Hank's lab.  He destroyed the Witness program."

The professor's eyebrow lifted.  "I see.  And this was worth demolishing Hank's lab-- months of valuable research?"  The question was frighteningly mild.

Bishop didn't answer.  He lowered his eyes a fraction and looked away.  After a moment, the professor nodded to himself as if satisfied by that reaction.  He turned his hoverchair and looked at Scott over his shoulder.

"Scott, Hank, come with me, please.  We have a briefing to finish.  I suggest the rest of you get some sleep.  There is little that can be done here until Cerebro has scrubbed the atmosphere in the lab."  Without a further word, he moved away.  Beast released Remy completely and nodded to Scott.  The two of them moved to follow the professor.  Hank glanced at his lab only once as they passed the hole in the wall. His expression seemed to Remy to be one of hurt more than anger, as if he'd lost something precious.  And, Remy reasoned, perhaps he had.  Curing the Legacy virus meant a great deal to Hank.  At heart he was a scientist, a doctor, and a healer.  Not a soldier. Remy had just made it harder for him to do what he loved most.

The other X-Men dispersed quietly, until only Remy, Bishop and Ororo were left in the hall.  The disappointment in her face was plain. It hurt even more than the professor's anger.

"I'm... sorry, 'Ro," Remy said.  He didn't dare call her Stormy.  Not now.

"You should be."  Her words were flat, but her voice still held a hint of its usual warmth.  She laid her hand on his arm.  "When you are ready to talk about this, I am curious to know why you felt it necessary to erase the Witness."  Her eyes held some sympathy, underlaid by steel.  Remy had the feeling she would eventually demand answers if he did not volunteer them.  He didn't know what to say.  After a moment of silence, she turned to Bishop.

"Come.  It is late."  She led him, unprotesting, away.  Remy was left standing in the hall, watching them leave.  He hadn't felt so completely alone for a very long time.


	12. [12]

Chapter 12

Remy looked around the lab, momentarily out of things to do.  The patch in the wall glared at him but Remy had gotten used to its presence.  At his computer terminal, Hank looked up.

"Done?"

"Oui.  Won' have results f' 'bout twenty minutes, t'ough.   What's next?"  Remy and Bishop's punishment (though that wasn't the word the Professor had used) had been to repair the damage to the lab and to help Hank make up the work that had been lost.  They were rarely there at the same time, more because the lab simply wasn't big enough for three people than because of anything he and Bishop might start.  Still, it took up a lot of Remy's time.  And he was learning more about molecular biology and genetics than he had ever wanted to.

It was the only way Remy knew how to apologize, so he kept his mouth shut and tried to learn.  Hank didn't like having to explain what was, to him, completely elementary, so Remy did his best to follow the directions he was given and get things right the first time.  He was doing better now that he had picked up some of the terminology.

Hank considered Remy over the rim of his glasses.  "I'd like to do that experiment using a twelve percent solution as well."  He nodded to the equipment in front of Remy then went back to his own work.  Remy kept his sigh to himself.  That was all of the instruction he was going to get.  Well, he'd set up the previous experiment, if only he could remember what Hank had done to get the right solution...  He racked his brain while he worked on the part of the set up that he did know.

At least Hank seemed willing to forgive them.  He had been mad-- the tirade Remy and Bishop had gotten that first day had been a shock coming from the normally good-natured Beast.  But once the lab was repaired and he was back to his research, Hank calmed down.  His silence now was just a result of his preoccupation with his work.  The other X-Men had dropped the subject at the professor's direct request.  Remy still wasn't sure why the professor had done that.  He didn't seem concerned that they no longer had the Witness around. Remy was too afraid to ask him why.  But maybe, having been inside Remy's mind, he knew that Remy didn't know anything about the deaths of the X-Men.  He could hope that, anyway, because he couldn't think of any other possible explanation.

By the time Remy had the second experiment started, Cerebro had beeped, signaling that the analysis of the first was complete.  He called up the display screen and started reading the results.  When Hank came over to see, Remy surrendered his seat to him, but continued to watch over his shoulder.

"Do these results tell you anything, Gambit?"

Remy stared at the screen.  "Only dat de virus grew de way y' said it would."  Was it supposed to mean something else?  All he had seen was the growth pattern that Hank had said would be there.

"Hmmm."  Then Hank launched into a discussion of viruses, their life cycles, and what this particular bit of information exposed about the life of the Legacy virus.  Remy wasn't certain he followed, but he tried to keep track of why Hank thought this particular experiment was important.  He had found that if he could figure that out, he could backtrack to some kind of understanding of how Hank had come up with the idea for the experiment in the first place.  It was a backwards kind of logic, but it helped to keep him from looking like a complete fool.

Cerebro beeped again, and Hank pulled up the second set of data.  He glanced over his shoulder at Remy.

"Very interesting, wouldn't you say?"

Remy looked at the numbers.  The growth pattern was almost the same as the first experiment.  He was about to say so, when another thought struck him.  Hank had said that the solution was of a substance that traditionally interfered in the function of viruses of this general type.  The second solution was a lot stronger than the first, so it would seem like the second batch of the virus shouldn't have done as well as the first, since it was literally swimming in poison.

"Guess y' can' kill de t'ing.  Least, not wit dis stuff."

Hank swiveled his seat around to face Remy, his expression thoughtful.  Remy wondered what he'd done this time.  But then Hank took off his glasses and began cleaning them.

"This is a rather personal question, but... have you ever considered going to college?" he asked as he held up the spectacles and peered at Remy in turn through each lens.

Remy blinked in confusion.  "'Scuse me?"

"College.  You know, an institution of higher learning?"  At Remy's blank look he added, "Haven't you ever wanted to do something... _else_... with your life?  Like a career of some sort?"

"A career?"  Remy felt like a broken record.  "Like what?"

"Well, electrical engineering springs to mind.  You already know a great deal about some kinds of circuitry-- and computers."

Remy laughed.  "Y' wan' me t' be an _engineer_?"

Hank didn't share the humor.  "Actually, I was just curious as to whether _you_ had ever wanted to be something like that."

Remy's laughter died at the strange sadness in Hank's expression.  The question stung.  What had he dreamed of becoming?  A master thief?  He was one, and had abandoned that life.  An X-Man?  He had stumbled into that with little grace.  He had just wanted to make sure Storm wasn't involved with a bunch of suicidal loonies, and then had never gotten around to leaving.  What then?  A... husband?  A father?  Those dreams had died long ago.  Had he never looked beyond just getting by?  Never... really... dreamed?  But what did he have to dream with?

"I-- I never went t' school, Hank."  Why did it hurt so much to admit that?  He hadn't done all _that_ badly for himself.

"Never?"

Remy shook his head.

"But you learned to read and write.  Two languages, I might add."

Remy shrugged.  "O' course.  Can' do anyt'ing if y' can' read."

"And, as I noted earlier, you know a great deal about wiring-- alarm circuits, fiber optic layouts, even pyrotechniques.  You're a skilled mechanic, and even a half decent cook--" He smiled briefly.  "If one likes Cajun food."

Remy cocked his head.  "Sure, I've picked up some t'ings over de years.  Most of it not do me any good 'less I go back t' t'ievin'.  Dat's not de same as college."  Remy paused.  He was no longer sure which side of the argument he was on.  It was beginning to sound like he was trying to convince Hank he _couldn't_ do something like go to school.  Arguing his own stupidity?  But what was the other side of the argument?  That he _could _be an engineer, or doctor or whatever?  He wasn't sure he believed that one, either.

Hank stood.  "Well, in my humble opinion, a formal education is simply 'picking up some things'-- on purpose."  He grinned.  "And now my stomach is telling me it's time for dinner.  Shall we?"  He indicated the door with a flourished wave.

Remy gave him one last, confused, look before proceeding to the door as Hank had suggested.  Dinner, at least, was simple and didn't require any soul-searching.  He tucked Hank's comments away in his mind, certain he would eventually have to get them out again for another look.  Hopefully that day would be a little while from now.  He already had enough unanswered questions about himself and his life to deal with.

#

Dust sifted down onto Rogue's face as she jostled the pile of boxes. She sneezed violently.  _Bless ya,_ she thought reflexively, and then, _Mah goodness but this place is a mess!_  She was in the basement storage area, where fifteen years of X-Men junk had gathered-- odds and ends from their various missions.  Most of the boxes she saw were labeled with the mission location-- Moscow, Savage Land, Cinncinati.  She chucked to herself.  Now there was a romantic location.  What in the world had the X-Men been doing in Cinncinati?  She was tempted to get the box down, but resisted.  That wasn't why she had come.

She continued to search through the stacked boxes until she found the one she wanted.  "Genosha" was scrawled across the side in green marker.  Rogue paused.  Memories flitted through her mind.  Genosha had been a hellish place, and she had suffered plenty during her times there.  She pushed the thoughts away.  What she wanted was in that box.

She lifted it down easily and flipped back the cardboard flaps.  After a moment of searching, she came up with what she wanted-- one of the slave collars.  There were several more that she could see, but for now her attention was completely absorbed by the one she held in her hands.  

Rogue settled to the ground with her back against the stacked boxes.  She rested her arms on her drawn-up knees and considered the collar, turning it over in her hands.  She flipped the activation switch. The lights that decorated it winked on.  Then she turned it off.

_Have ya evah considered just how_ many _ways there are ta get around ya powers?_  she asked herself.  The question had been haunting her, as had the memory of the Witness' kiss, made more bittersweet now that he was gone.  Especially in the dark hours of the night, when she could find nothing to fill her mind with and crowd the questions out.  How many tears of anger and frustration had she shed before finally admitting that no, she never had.  Never had considered how it might be possible to live a normal life, free of her mutant powers.  But now here she was, staring at one of those ways.  She was holding it in her hands. All she had to do was put it on.

_Ya got that much courage, gal?_ she asked herself.  Courage enough to admit that she'd brought most of her misery on herself, that she'd shut out everyone that had ever tried to help her-- everyone that had ever tried to love her?  Could she leave the armor of her powers behind and be ready to accept whatever emotional wounds life threw at her?  Was that a risk worth taking?

Memory drew Rogue back to the wedding-- Scott and Jean's.  She remembered how much it had hurt to watch them pledge their lives to each other, certain she would never be able to do the same.  Every word had felt like a dagger of ice in her heart, yet she couldn't help but be happy for them.  She had watched enviously as they talked to each other that night.  There had been no hesitation in them, no fear-- just confidence and joy.  It hadn't occurred to Rogue until much later that what she had really seen was two people who would be happy to sacrifice themselves for each other-- and _that_ was the true source of their confidence in their love.

Now it was Rogue's turn to ask herself how much _she_ was willing to sacrifice to have the life she wanted.  Remy had been willing to sacrifice his life and soul for a taste of her love that day in Israel.  She had absorbed that from him along with everything else.  And he had been willing to do it again in Seattle.  That was why Rogue had run.  She knew she couldn't give him the same in return.  She couldn't sacrifice that much of herself.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and slid down her face.  The choice was hers, and she knew it.  She couldn't avoid it any longer.  If she put the collar away now, she would be sealing herself into a life of loneliness, but a safe life where she would not risk losing herself.  If she put it on... she couldn't even begin to guess what might happen.  She would have to cope with life as it came, and if it was more than she could bear... she would just be lost.  The decision was her to make. Now.

Taking a deep breath, she depressed the latch button on the collar and pulled.  Nothing happened.  The collar was locked, and she didn't have a key.  She searched the contents of the box carefully but found nothing.  Then she settled to the ground once again and contemplated the device in her hands.  It seemed to stare back at her with the calm defiance of all inanimate objects.  The absurdity of the situation hit Rogue in that instant, and she reacted the only way she could-- she began to laugh.

#

"Hey, Remy, can ah talk to ya?"  

The casual question caught Remy completely by surprise.  He turned to find Rogue walking up behind him.  She had just stepped out of the elevator into the first floor hall, and carried a heavy-looking loop of metal in one hand.

"Sure, chere."  He was half tempted to refuse, but curiosity had gotten the better of him.  She was never this friendly.

Rogue held up the loop of metal, offering it to him.  Remy's surprise doubled.  It was a Genoshan slave collar.  A mutant power suppression device.  Stunned, he took it from her, knowing his feelings had to be showing on his face.  Rogue didn't seem to notice.

"Can ya pick the lock on this thing?" she asked.

A hundred questions raced through his mind, but he forced himself to look at the lock.  _Stick t' business, Remy,_ he told himself.  _It de only safe ground y' got._ The locking mechanism was intricate-- one of the best Remy had ever seen, at least on that small a scale.

"Oui.  But it take some time."

Rogue smiled.  "That's all right."  She seemed a little embarrassed.  "Ah can't get it open without breakin' it an' ah really didn't want to put the thing on 'til ah knew someone was going to be able t' get it off again."

"You plannin' t' _wear_ it, girl?"  Remy felt like the world had suddenly turned sideways on him.  This simply could not be the Rogue he knew.

Rogue ducked her head and chewed on her lip for a moment.  "Did ya know we have six a these gizmos down in the basement?  Just sittin' there collectin' dust."  She fidgeted uncomfortably.  "Ah figured ah ought t' put 'em to good use."

Remy wasn't sure what to say.  _Stick t' business_, he reminded himself.  "If y' gon' wear it, y' wan' me t' just dismantle de lock?  Den y' won' have t' worry 'bout it."

Excitement brightened her expression.  "Can ya do that?"

"'Course.  M' tools're upstairs."  Remy found himself leading the way to his room, his gut in a knot.  Rogue followed him, blithely unaware of how he felt, for all he could tell.  She seemed-- happy, suddenly.  Secure, for the first time since he'd met her, and completely unafraid.  The sudden change was disturbing for all that it seemed like a good thing.  But it left him feeling very, very confused.

His workbench was its usual cluttered mess, though that was the only part of the room that wasn't neat.  Remy had never been careless with his possessions-- he liked nice things and was careful to keep them that way.  He crossed to the bench and set the collar down on it.  He pulled a hard black case out from under a pile that had, until recently, been a carburetor.  His tools were in the case, carefully clamped in their places on the velvet lining.  It was nearly a quarter million dollars in highly specialized equipment, but Remy had found that the difference between making the pinch and getting caught was sometimes nothing more than the quality of the tools you used.  He pulled out the things he knew he'd need, and set to work.  Rogue perched on the edge of his bed, watching.  She didn't say anything. Remy had to keep biting his tongue to keep from asking the inevitable questions.  _Stick t' business_, he told himself.  It had become a mantra. He repeated it over and over to himself as he worked.

Eventually, he had the tiny mechanism disabled.  He opened and closed the collar a few times to be sure.

"Dis t'ing light up like a Christmas tree when y' close de circuit," he told Rogue.  The collar had several sets of lights that flashed when it was activated.  "Y' wan' me t' take care o' dose, too?"

Rogue nodded.  "Thanks, sugar."

A simple interrupt took care of the lights.  Remy checked the circuit integrity just to be sure he hadn't made a mistake.  The needle on the meter pegged the far side as soon as he attached it.  The circuit was whole.  He handed it to Rogue and stepped back warily.

Rogue stared at the collar in her hands for several moments.  Then she took a deep breath and closed it around her throat.  The latch snicked into place with a sense of finality.  She left her hands there for a time, then let them fall to her sides.  Her gaze was clear, the green eyes just as beautiful as Remy remembered.

Remy gathered his courage.  "Acid test, chere?"  He held out his hand.  He hadn't worn gloves today.  It was a moment of deja vu.  Remy was drawn back to Seattle, standing on the street in the midst of the wreckage of that old, hated theatre, and making the same offer.  She had refused him then. A terrified corner of his mind whispered that she would refuse again-- would leave again.  Would steal his heart again.

Slowly, Rogue removed her gloves and dropped them, one by one, to the floor.  Then she reached toward him, fingers trembling.  The confidence he had seen in her had given way.  Tears glimmered in her eyes, though whether they were from fear or pain or joy, he couldn't tell.  

Remy's breath caught in his throat.  Rogue's touch was as light as a butterfly's, and as fleeting.  But she came back when he didn't move, this time with more certainty.  She rested her fingers on his, eyes wide as she stared at the connection.  When nothing happened, she began to smile.  Slowly her smile broadened until her face was filled with nothing but incredulous joy.

"It works..." she breathed.

"Oui, chere."  Remy was completely entranced.  He didn't dare move.  He was afraid she might simply disappear into his dreams.

Rogue broke the spell.  She clapped both hands to her mouth, gasping, as if she had just realized something.  "Ah'm free!"  She threw her arms up toward the ceiling and did a pirouette, laughing.  "Can ya believe it, Remy?  Ah'm free!"

She did another pirouette and hugged him.  "Thank ya _so_ much!"

Remy held on to her as she stepped back.  He had too many questions to just let her go.  Rogue stopped when she felt the restriction.  Her hands still rested on his shoulders, but her smile was fading.

"Y' wan' t' tell me what's goin' on, chere?" he asked.

Her expression turned rueful.  "Ah will, sugar.  Ah owe ya that much."  She looked around.  "But can we go someplace else?"  She sounded sheepish, as if she were a little ashamed that being in his bedroom made her uncomfortable.

Remy grinned at her expression.  This was the Rogue that he knew.  "Harry's?" he suggested.

She cocked her head, considering.  Then she nodded.  "Sounds good.  Ah'll even buy."  Her smile had returned.

They left together.  Remy wasn't sure what he dared hope for, or even what he wanted.  For the moment it was enough to know she was willing to talk, and that, at the very least, some scraps of their friendship still survived.  Who could say?  Maybe things could even go back to the way they were.  A flash of green caught his eye as he closed the door behind them.  Rogue's gloves still lay on the floor next to his bed.  He took it as an omen.  Things would never be the same between them-- for good or bad.  He didn't know what the chances were that they might become something better.


	13. [13]

Chapter 13

Charles looked up at the polite knock on his study door.  He called for the owner to come in and was unsurprised to see Cyclops step into the room.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"  

"Of course not, Scott.  Is something on your mind?"  Charles pushed aside the reports he was reading.  Hank's progress was steady but slow.  If he had discovered anything remarkable, he would have hung himself from the ceiling fan and told Charles about it in detail instead of just leaving the papers on his desk.  An errant thought returned to him and he hid his smile.  The contractor who had installed the fans had wanted to know why he wanted his house to have structurally reinforced ceiling fans that could carry four hundred pounds of downforce.  Charles had never explained since the poor contractor would probably have understood a blue furry mutant who liked to hang upside down while expounding theories far less than he understood the original request.

Scott settled himself in one of the chairs that faced Charles' desk. Charles dragged his attention back to the present.

"I was wondering if you've decided what to do about Gambit," Scott said without preamble.

Charles had wondered when the question would come.  "Is there something I should be doing about him?" he responded innocently.  He was well aware of Scott's feelings towards the young Cajun.

Scott's eyebrows dipped.  "I know you asked us not to say anything to him about this thing with the Witness, but don't you think it needs to be dealt with?"

Charles smiled to take the sting out of his words.  "I think you're overreacting, Scott.  After all, the Witness was nothing more than a danger room projection."

"Yes, but it still seems... suspicious."

"You were the one who cautioned me not to put too much store in the Witness, weren't you?  Not to trust him?"

"Uh, yes."  Scott was obviously uncomfortable with the questions.  "But that still doesn't explain Gambit's actions.  If he had concerns about the Witness, he should have said something instead of sneaking around and destroying the program."

Charles leaned back in his chair.  "Scott, you have had two children, now, return from possible futures as adults-- Cable and Rachel."

Scott frowned at the new direction in the conversation, but nodded.

"And as I remember, neither you nor Jean reacted particularly... rationally... to meeting either of them, knowing who they were."  Charles could tell from Scott's expression that he didn't like having to concede that point.  "They represented futures that hadn't turned out the way you wanted. I remember Jean often saying that Rachel's presence made her feel like she couldn't control her own future because it had already been decided for her."

Scott nodded at this, but slowly.  He seemed to understand the point Charles was leading up to.  Charles decided to spell it out anyway.

"Now consider that Remy has had to face a future version-- not of a child, but of himself.  And I doubt that self is who or what he wants to become.  I am sure he has felt much the way you and Jean have in the past when dealing with such things."

Scott sighed.  "I guess you're right, Professor.  I wasn't looking at it that way.  I suppose I wouldn't be too happy to meet a future version of myself, either.  Especially under these circumstances."  Another thought seemed to strike him.  "Do you think Gambit knows anything about this?  Our... deaths?"

Charles answered him honestly.  "I don't think he knows anything about it.  Not now, certainly.  But I also believe that he sits in the very crux of the matter despite that ignorance.  I think that was the warning the Witness was trying to give us."

Scott stood.  "You kind of liked him, didn't you?"

Charles smiled.  "Would it ruin your opinion of me if I admitted it?"  He didn't give Scott a chance to reply.  "I think he is probably a very remarkable man.  I would have liked more of a chance to know him."

Scott didn't seem particularly reassured by his words, but Charles left the conversation there.  Scott was like a son to him, more so than any of his blood children had ever been.  He was confident that Scott would eventually conclude, as he had, that Remy needed their support.  And he would come through.  Charles knew that Scott's few attempts to build a friendship with Gambit had not been as productive as he might have liked, but he had faith in Scott, that he would find a way to win the young man's respect.  Perhaps even his trust.  Gambit was, in Charles' private opinion, the most self-sufficient lost soul he had ever met, but still lost for all of that.

"Professor?"  Scott was looking at him with concern written in his features.

"What is it?" 

Scott shrugged.  "Nothing, sir.  You just seemed sad all of a sudden."

Charles waved his concern away.  "It's nothing important."

"If you say so."  Scott left quietly.  Charles stared at the door for several long moments before returning to his work.

#

Remy sipped his beer and waited.  They were comfortably tucked away in one of those back corner booths at Harry's, and the waitress knew to leave them alone.  Rogue sat with both hands wrapped around her mug, staring into the foam as if she might find a revelation there.  She had not moved or spoken for several minutes.  In fact, she hadn't said anything at all since they'd left the mansion. Remy was beginning to wonder if she was going to.  He was still willing to wait-- at least for a while longer.  She had done nothing but surprise him today, so the odds were good he might get one or two more.  She had certainly surprised him when she offered to ride with him on his bike.  Not that she'd gotten particularly snuggly about it, but without her powers, she had seemed quite happy to hold on.

At first, he had thought it might be a come on, but Rogue was never that subtle.  If she were in the mood to flirt, she tended to do so with the heat of a twelve alarm fire.  He had learned long ago, however, that when she was like that it was a sure indication she had absolutely no intention of carrying through on her suggestions.  It was only when she was at her shyest that it meant she was serious.  Which was pretty normal for a young woman with zero sexual experience, he had to admit.  Unfortunately, he wasn't certain where she might be in that spectrum today.  Everything she did seemed to be... unconscious.  He had the sneaking suspicion she wasn't trying to flirt with him at all.  

_So, y' just gonna get what y' deserve f' gettin' y' hopes up too high_, he told himself sternly.

"Rogue?" he finally asked.

Rogue seemed to shake herself out of her reflections.  She looked up briefly and then away.  "Ah'm sorry, sugar.  Ah thought ah knew what ah wanted ta say."

"Take y' time, chere.  They not kickin' us out yet."  It was a feeble joke, but she smiled anyway.

After a few more moments of silence, Rogue sighed and seemed to gather herself.  "Well, first things first, ah guess."  She looked up, meeting his gaze.  An old, familiar fear filled her eyes with shadows.  "Ah'm really sorry-- for everything.  Ah nevah meant ta hurt ya..."

Remy was about to protest, but she stopped him with a shake of her head.  "An' ah don't mean mah powers.  Ah'm sorry ah ran away, an' that ah tried ta blame ya for everything when it really wasn't evah about you.  It was about me."  The fear was still in her eyes, but she had it under control.  Remy couldn't help but admire her, even as he tried to listen.  The courage he saw in her now was one of the things that had attracted him, even in the beginning.

"Ah still don't remember what happened to ya in Seattle."  That got his full attention. His stomach knotted into a tiny ball.  _Any_ mention of Seattle made him nervous.  "An' ah suppose it doesn't really matter."  He began to relax a little as the meaning of her words sank in.  "Ah hope someday ya'll tell me, because ah know how much it's eatin' at ya, but ah've got things in mah past, too, that ah'd rather just bury and forget."  Her gaze begged him to believe.

Remy wasn't certain.  "What about not bein' able t' trust me?"  That's what she'd said in Seattle.  That she'd never be able to trust him because of what he'd done there.

Rogue looked away.  "Ah trust ya-- who ya are today, at least."  She looked back at him as she qualified the statement.  "Ah think, if ah'd met ya before ya were in the X-Men, ah probably wouldn't a been able ta stand ya.  But if y'all are willin' ta live with that, ah can, too."

Remy had to think on that one for a minute.  What she said hurt, as much as he knew it was the truth.  But she had been inside his head-- she _knew_ what kind of a man he had been, and she didn't like him any more than Remy himself did.  By agreeing, he would be admitting that she was right about him-- about his past.  He didn't want to do that.

_Don' be a fool, boy_, he told himself.  _She knows.  Nothin' y' c'n say gonna change that._ But it took a big chink out of his pride to admit it to her.

"I c'n live wit it, chere."  Rogue was worth more than his pride.

Her answering smile was brief, but warm.  When it was gone, the shadow-fear in her eyes took hold once again.  There was still more she wanted to say.

"Ah hope ya know that when ah left, ah wasn't really runnin' away from _you_.  Ah was tryin' ta run away from mahself, even though ah didn't know exactly why at the time."

Remy shrugged.  "I figured it was some o' both."

Rogue was running one finger around the rim of her mug absently as she spoke.  "Do ya remember when ah said ah couldn't stand ta live knowin' ah could nevah kiss ya again?"  She stared at her hand circling the glass.

Like he would forget!  Every word of their conversation was etched into his memory.  "Oui, chere."

Her hand left the mug, fluttered to her throat and the heavy collar.  "Even then, ah knew, subconsciously at least, that it was because _ah_ couldn't.  Not because it wasn't possible."  She let her hand fall to the table.  Remy knew he could easily reach out and take it in his own, but wasn't certain if he should.

"What changed y' mind?" he asked.

Scarlet crept up her cheeks.  "Ah... don't-- ah... it was... the Witness."  Her eyes darted to his face, as if she were frightened what his reaction might be.  It wasn't the best.

"The Witness!  What'd he tell you?"  His reaction surprised Remy almost as much as it did Rogue.  Why did the idea of her talking to the Witness make him angry?

"Remy!"  Rogue stared at him as if she were wondering the same thing.  The people sitting a few tables away looked over at the sudden outburst, silencing them both.

"He told me the truth," Rogue continued quietly when it seemed like they had privacy again.  "That it wasn't mah powers that kept me away from people."  Her expression turned sour.  "Y'know, it's funny.  The Professah an' Logan an' Storm, an' a lot of other people, have told me the same thing in their own ways.  But ah nevah believed it 'til it was _you_ tellin' me."

"De Witness is _not_ me!"  Remy brought his fist down on the table with enough force to rattle their glasses.  The people at the other table looked their way again, murmuring quietly among themselves.  This time Remy didn't care if he was making a scene.  To have _Rogue_ tying him to the Witness-- believing that he had some connection to the murders of the X-Men-- was more than he could stand.

"Take it easy, sugar."  Rogue's tone was placating.  "Ah'm sorry.  Ah wasn't tryin' ta upset ya."

Remy forced himself to calm down.  It wasn't Rogue he was angry at, really, and it would be incredibly stupid to antagonize her over something that wasn't her fault.

"It's o.k., chere.  I'm sorry.  I... didn' mean t' blow up at y' like dat."

She smiled reassuringly.  "Boy sure does get under ya skin."  There was a hint of tease in her expression.  "But ah guess ah can't blame ya fo' that one.  Ah don't think ah'd like it much either.  Is that why ya erased him?"

This time, it was Remy who looked away.  How could he explain?  He risked a glance at her.  Rogue watched him with a mixture of concern, hope and curiosity.  But underneath that lay another emotion-- a quiet fear.  Fear that he wouldn't tell her, that this would be another Seattle-- another piece of his life he wasn't willing to share with her.  Remy knew that he could wreck everything by not telling her, and that thought scared him as much as anything ever had.

"It jus' seems like every time I turn 'round, somebody's tryin' t' tell me dat I know somet'ing 'bout de X-Men dyin'.  Dat it's my fault somehow.  But I don' know nothin'!  I swear it!"  He stared into her eyes, desperate to know if she believed him.  Her gaze was clear, but there were still traces of suspicion, as if she wanted to believe him, but couldn't quite-- not completely.  Remy felt like he'd been gut-shot.  Then the pain turned to anger.

"I'd let de Professor deep scan me if I t'ought it do any good t' convince ya, chere."  Remy knew the words came out cold.  "But even dat not do any good, eh?  Everybody always be wonderin' if I didn' hide somet'ing from him-- bein' as I'm a telepath an' all."  Remy could see his sarcasm cutting her.  The hurt was reflected in her face.  But he didn't have control of his anger anymore, and the words continued.

"An' y'know what de really rotten part is, chere?  De Witness knows I don' know nothin'.  He says _dat's_ what's gonna get de X-Men killed.  So it don' much matter if I know anyt'ing 'bout it or not.  De X-men are jus' screwed-- an' dere's not a t'ing I c'n do 'bout it."

Remy sat back, arms crossed.  He felt cold inside.  His anger was draining away, leaving only the fear and pain.  Tears glimmered in Rogue's eyes. She bit her lip in an effort not to cry.  Remy knew it was unfair to dump everything on her when it wasn't her fault.  He knew he'd hurt her, and hated himself for it.  But he didn't know how to undo it and take back what he'd said.  He didn't even know if he wanted to.  For all that she'd _said_ she trusted him, she still didn't-- not really.  Wasn't it better to know the truth than to live with the lie?  Except that the truth hurt a lot more than the lies.

Rogue pushed her mug aside until it rested against the wall.  Then she did the same to his, leaving nothing on the table between them except two streaks of water condensed off of their glasses.  Remy watched her without really registering what she was doing.  It hardly mattered now-- she would be leaving soon.  As if on cue, Rogue started to rise.  But instead of getting to her feet, she climbed across the table on hands and knees, ducking to avoid the low hung lamp, then slithered off the table and into his lap.  It wasn't a very graceful maneuver. Remy caught her mostly by reflex, too startled for anything more.  As if they were a long way away, he heard the surprised laughter of the people at the other table.

Rogue grabbed the collar of his jacket in both hands.  Her face was only inches from his-- so close he could almost smell the salt in the tears that had begun to track down her face.  Her expression was intense, but Remy couldn't identify the emotion.

"Now, ya listen here, Cajun," she began.  Her voice was ragged.  "Ah'm sorry fo' all the hurtin' ah've done ya.  An' ah'm sorry ah've been such a fool all these years.  An', yes, all this stuff goin' on with the Witness an' the X-Men dyin' scares me ta blue blazes."  Her grip tightened.  "But ah _don't_-- not fo' one instant-- believe ya got any intentions o' hurtin' the X-Men.  Ah know ya too well fo' that."  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  She had read his soul once.

Warm relief rushed through Remy, followed by shame for how he had treated her.  Mixed in with all of that was a new warmth, born of her confidence in him.  Remy pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair, telling her again and again just how sorry he was.  Rogue shushed him and returned the hug enthusiastically.

A smattering of applause and cheers from the people at the other table set them both to laughing in embarrassment.  When they turned to look, several of them raised their glasses in a toast.

"Maybe we should go, chere," Remy suggested.  Rogue agreed with a mischievous smile.  Comments to the bartender about the quality of the "entertainment" followed them out the door.  For once, they were both content to let someone else have the last word, though it was a while before the color faded from Rogue's cheeks.

The ride back was quiet and comfortable.  They said little, but Rogue's arms were wrapped about his waist, and she rested her cheek against his back.  Remy was loathe to return to the mansion.  There were too many people there, friends who would want to hear all about Rogue's decision-- people who would want to be there to encourage her.  Remy didn't really want to surrender her company just yet.  A familiar turn in the road sparked an idea.

"Hang on, chere," he told her.  "Rough road."

"Ah remember," she answered as he pulled off of the pavement only a dirt track that led away into the woods.  The late afternoon sun colored everything with a hint of orange as he maneuvered the bike over the uneven terrain.  His Harley wasn't meant to be an off road vehicle, but he was a skilled enough driver that it didn't matter.  Their course climbed steadily into the gently rolling countryside until they reached the crest of a particular hill.  It rose well above the surrounding area and was bare of trees at the top, giving them an excellent view of both the pastoral New York countryside and the darkening sky.

Remy parked the bike and settled sideways on it.  Rogue stood in front of him.She leaned back into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder.  Together they watched the skies fill with fiery orange and red and pink, eventually fading into darkening shades of blue.  Remy had never been much on admiring sunsets, but he knew how much Rogue loved them. He was perfectly content to stay there, with his arms wrapped around her waist and her fingers twined with his, for as long as she wanted.

After a while, she sighed contentedly.  "Ah love sunsets."

Remy smiled.  "Y' say dat every time we come here."  It almost seemed like the intervening months had never happened.

Rogue turned to look at him.  She was smiling.  "Ah guess ah do, don't ah."

She was so close, her eyes reflecting the last of the sky's glory.  Remy didn't even think.  He leaned forward that last little bit to kiss her.  Rogue went completely rigid the moment their lips touched.  Remy backed off, his earlier joy suddenly drowning in confusion.

"Sorry chere--"

"No."  Her fingers cupped his cheek.  "Ah... it... ya just took me by surprise, is all."  Slowly she relaxed against him again.  Her smile was nervous, but full of promise.  "Ah'll get better at this," she told him.

Remy grinned at her.  He couldn't help it.  "'Course, chere.  Jus' need some practice..."he suggested.  Then he suited action to words and kissed her again.  She twitched at the moment of contact, but didn't pull away.  She laughed a little as they parted.

"_Lots_ a practice," she murmured playfully.


	14. [14]

Chapter 14

"Dat enough, Jean?" Remy eyed the mound of grated cheese before him.

Jean looked over from her position by the stove.  "Looks like it.  Thanks."

"No problem."  Remy set the remaining hunk of cheddar down in its wrapper and happily pushed the cutting board with the mounded scrapings away.  That's what he got for hanging around in the kitchen while breakfast was in the works.  It was a small price to pay for Rogue's company.  She had breakfast duty today, along with Jean.

At the moment, the object of his attention was cheerfully ignoring him as she chatted with Jean about the day's plans.  Remy didn't mind.  It was a tease and they both knew it.  So did Jean, and since she was tolerant enough to play the middleman, the atmosphere in the kitchen was festive.

Remy sipped his coffee.  He was seated at the little breakfast bar that lined the back of one of the legs of the U-shaped counter.  Rogue stood directly across from him, facing away as she rolled out the dough for her much prized scratch biscuits.  Remy admired the view without comment, mostly for Jean's sake.  Rogue's wardrobe had gone through a startling metamorphosis due to her new control of her powers.  It was a subject of some spirited discussion among the male members of the household-- she was proving to be as showy in her tastes as Psylocke.  This morning's short cutoffs and halter top were no exception.  Jean noticed his attention and gave him a look of mock disgust that was spoiled by the smile that kept creeping onto her lips.  Remy gave her his best "Who me?" innocent expression. Jean wagged her wooden spoon at him in silent warning.

With her back turned, Rogue was unaware of the exchange. She continued telling Jean about the play they were all supposed to be seeing that night.  Remy and Jean both fought to keep from laughing out loud at her obliviousness.  Remy was impressed when Jean managed to answer a question in a nearly-normal voice.

Rogue turned around. She put her hands on her hips, leaving flour smudges.  "Y'all are havin' an awful lot a fun at mah expense," she said severely, but her smile belied her tone.

"I was just telling Remy to behave himself," Jean answered without a trace of remorse.  "Defending your honor, as a good friend ought."  Remy wasn't sure how she kept a straight face.

A familiar, wicked twinkle lit Rogue's eyes.  "If ah was concerned about holdin' on ta mah _honor_, girl, ah'd be datin' somebody else."  Both of Jean's eyebrows went up in surprised amusement at her implication.

"Is dat an invitation, chere?" 

Rogue met his challenging stare without fear. "If ya think ya'all are up to it," she replied.  Her smile was downright predatory.  Then she gave him a last, sultry look and turned back to her biscuit-making.

Jean leaned against the counter, chuckling.  "Remy," she told him in an undertone, "you are in _so_ much trouble."

"Don' I know it," he answered in the same undertone.  "But dat's de fun of it, neh?"  Rogue's teasing was still only teasing, though the relationship was slowly working its way toward changing that.  Remy didn't mind.  Foreplay was entirely too much fun to rush.

Eventually, Rogue had all of the dough cut into rounds and laid out on cookie sheets that she stacked beside the oven, preparatory to baking.  Then she crossed the kitchen to help Jean chop up the remaining omelet ingredients.  That put the three of them in friendly proximity, with Remy facing the two women over the counter.  Rogue's collar had been converted by Forge into a heavy but decorative necklace, which glinted in the light as she moved.  She had three of them now, of various styles, and she and Jean were deep in a discussion about which would look best with a certain dress.  Remy tuned them out.  It was one of those mystifying female discussions, especially when they started talking about colors.  He had yet to understand why they didn't simply call a blue dress "blue".  It had to be teal or sea foam or some other such bizarre label, the true meaning of which he would never decipher.

He scraped the remains of a pepper into the bowl and looked up to see if Jean wanted any more.  He froze in shock.  Over Rogue's shoulder he could see a man standing in the doorway.  But his mutant power hadn't detected anything, though he could feel other members of the X-Men moving around in parts of the house that were much further away.

The man was dressed in black combat fatigues and held a high power energy weapon.  Heckler and Koch.  A detached corner of Remy's mind identified the gun.  He had a split second vision of what that gun could do-- of Rogue, head thrown back in agony as the beam lanced through her, the edges of the wound licked by flames as flesh and bone were consumed, and the air filled with the sickly sweet smell of burning meat.

"Get down!"  Remy roared and dove over the counter at the two women.  His speed and agility were such that neither woman knew what was happening until they were on the floor.

"Remy, what--?"  Rogue struggled to roll over despite having had the breath knocked out of her.  But Remy was already up and running for the doorway.

"Cerebro!  Intruder on the grounds!" he yelled at the air, knowing the system would monitor him despite its invisibility.  Immediately, alarms began to blare throughout the house.

Cards slipped easily into his hands as he ran.  He charged them without thought, but his target had disappeared from the doorway.  He dove through and rolled to his feet, aware of possible ambush, but there was no one in the hallway in either direction.   His mutant power catalogued each of the X-Men, but nothing outside of that.  Scott and Hank rounded the corner at a dead run, slowing when they saw him.

"What happened?" Scott demanded.

"Where is he?!"  Remy was still searching the hall.

"Where is who?  Cerebro isn't registering any unauthorized presence."  Scott looked over Remy's shoulder to the two women who had emerged from the kitchen.  Jean shook her head and Rogue shrugged.

"Sorry, sugar.  Ah didn't see him."

"He was dere."

"Then we'll have to search the grounds."  Scott began giving orders into his communicator.  Cerebro had already locked the facility down, but Remy knew a few people who wouldn't be stopped by that.  Still, there was nothing to do but search in the hopes that this man wouldn't be one of them.

The search took three hours and turned up absolutely nothing, even with all of the X-Men participating.  Remy was in a black mood and beginning to doubt his sanity by the time they gave up and gathered in the war room.

"Can you describe this man?" the professor asked Remy.

"'Course.  You t'ink I'm halucinatin', don' you."  It wasn't really a question.  He could hear the skepticism in the Professor's voice.

"Not necessarily."  The professor raised a hand to forestall further protests.  "But the physical evidence does not seem to indicate that there was ever anyone present in the house.  Neither Cerebro's sensors nor Wolverine's nose could find traces of anything unusual.  Also, considering the amount of psychic trauma you have been subjected to of late, I cannot rule out the possibility that this was a hallucination.  However, this is the X-Men, and strange things often happen here.  Please, describe the man you saw."

Only somewhat placated, Remy concentrated on the image of the man standing in the doorway.  "He was 'bout six foot two, two hundred, maybe.  Blond hair-- real short.  Military style.  Dark eyes, brown, maybe.  Clean shaven.  Had a scar at de corner o' his right eye."  He indicated the location.  "Prob'ly a knife wound."

"What makes you say that?"

Remy shrugged.  "Straight an' clean.  Might a been a bullet graze.  Most everyt'ing else makes more of a mess."

The professor took a moment to consider the explanation.  He seemed a bit surprised by the analysis.  Eventually he indicated that Remy should continue.

"He was wearin' black fatigues.  Didn' see no insignia.  Pretty standard equipment, 'cept de gun-- dat was a Heckler and Koch energy rifle.  De eighty-eight, wit an extended power pack."

Bishop leaned forward.  "That is one of the most powerful hand weapons of this time period."

"Expensive, too," Logan agreed in his customary growl.  "No punk off the street could afford something like that.  This guy sounds like a professional."

"_If_ he isn't just a figment of Gambit's imagination," Archangel amended.

"I know what I saw, Wings," Remy answered coldly.  "He was dere."

"Enough."  The Professor's tone silenced them both.  "We can run Gambit's description through Cerebro and the various agencies to which we have access.  Perhaps we can settle this mystery by identifying the man."

The Professor entered the information, then sat back and waited.  A little yellow smiley face appeared on the screen-- Hank's addition to the programming-- which signaled that the machine was searching.  After twenty minutes or so, the input screen disappeared and was replaced by a photograph of a man's face.  Remy recognized him immediately.  The photo retreated to the upper left hand corner of the screen.  Data filled the rest.

"Well, whaddaya know," Logan said.

"Is this the man?" the professor asked.  Remy nodded.

The man's name was Edward Toussant.  He was a professional mercenary, currently known to be a member of the Star Company.  

Remy felt a strange stab of relief, followed by more confusion.  He had been secretly afraid that he _had_ been hallucinating.  But the man he'd seen was real.  And in the business, though what a mercenary company would want with the X-Men, he couldn't guess.

"If this Toussant _was_ here in the house, he wasn't alone."  That from Logan.

"How y' figure dat?"

Logan fingered his watch.  "I've run across Star Company before.  I know their breakers-- they're good enough to get in here.  But this guy ain't one of 'em.  He'd have to have help."

"What do you know about Star Company, LeBeau?"  Bishop's tone was completely flat.  It set the hairs on the back of Remy's neck bristling.  Bishop knew something.

"Nothin'.  I heard de name b'fore, but dat's it."

Bishop eyed him as if trying to decide whether to believe him or not.  He didn't seem to reach any definite conclusion.  There was a great deal going on behind those eyes, Remy thought.  Bishop wasn't very good at masking his emotions.  He knew something about Star Company, something that he thought tied in to Remy.  

Remy kept the thoughts to himself.  It wasn't something he wanted to ask about with the other X-Men present.

Hank had taken over the keyboard, and appeared to be searching for further information on Toussant or Star Company.  He found what he was looking for and sat back.

"Both SHIELD and our very own CIA report that this Star Company is currently in the employ of the nation of Zair, as auxiliaries in their little border dispute.  I cannot imagine what interest they would have in the X-Men."  He resettled his glasses on his nose.

"Nor can I," the Professor agreed.  "However, we will go to alert status for a few days, just in case."  He surveyed the gathered X-Men.  Cyclops was nodding, his expression thoughtful as he mentally rearranged schedules and plans to accommodate the professor's order.

"Otherwise," the Professor continued, "I think we will be forced to put this incident down in the 'Unexplained' category until and unless something else happens."  He glanced questioningly at Remy, who nodded.  He couldn't really ask for anything more.  As certain as he was that the man had been in the house, he couldn't prove it.  Not even to himself.

The X-Men dispersed slowly.  Jean and Rogue headed for the kitchen with complaints of all the food that had gone to waste.  Neither sounded particularly serious. Rogue smiled at Remy as she passed.

Remy caught up with Wolverine as he was leaving the war room.  "Hey, Logan."

Logan stopped and turned.

"Can I ask a favor?"  

"You c'n ask, kid.  Don't mean I'll say yes."  Logan's response was gruff as usual.  Remy ignored the "kid".  Logan was pushing to see how upset he really was.

"Will y' check de kitchen again?"

One bushy eyebrow rose.  "This thing's got ya rattled, Cajun.  You imagined the guy."

"How c'n I imagine somebody I never seen b'fore?"

Logan's expression grew thoughtful.  "I thought that was a line fer the Prof.  You really never crossed paths with these guys?"

Remy shook his head.  Logan didn't speak for several minutes, but their course through the house had changed.  They were now headed for the ground floor, probably the kitchen.  Remy was surprised how reassuring it was to know that Logan believed him.

"Ya said ya'd heard of these guys, at least.  How much d' ya know about them?"  Logan finally asked.

Remy shrugged.  "Almost nothin'.  I've heard dey're worth de money, if y' can afford dem."

"They are.  They're one of the best merc outfits around.  The Colonel's smart about the jobs he takes, too."

"De Colonel?"

"Yup.  Used ta be with the Marines, back when.  Retired with full honors, then decided to go private.  He kept the rank.  Most folks just call him Snow, though--" Logan paused.  "You o.k., Cajun?"

Remy was staring at nothing.  He'd had an instant's flash of recognition-- an image of a tall, impossibly pale man staring at him without anger or compassion from the other side of an automatic pistol.  He couldn't place the image, couldn't recognize where or when he might have seen the man.

"Dis Snow--" Remy knew he sounded scared.  He was scared.  "He an albino, right?  Real tall?"

"Yeah.  I thought you didn't know these guys."  Logan's expression was curious, wary, and even a little concerned.

"Neither did I."  Remy let go of the image.  It didn't make sense.  None of it made any sense.

As if sensing that Remy didn't want to say anything else, Logan changed the subject.  "We're almost to the kitchen.  Ya still want me ta take another look?"

Remy nodded.  "T'anks."

As before, Logan found nothing.  No sign, scent or trace that anyone besides the X-Men had recently been there.  Remy wasn't surprised.  Eventually, Logan gave up and joined the others for a somewhat belated lunch.  Remy ducked out.  He wasn't hungry, and he didn't want to see any more X-Men with their quizzical stares.  Especially when he didn't have a single answer for their questions.

#

Bishop settled himself on the remains of a fallen tree and stared at the tranquil water before him.  He had taken a liking to the spot as a place to rest, to think.  He and Storm had stopped to talk here during his first day at the mansion.  He had been furious that the X-Men were holding a lakeside picnic despite his claims that they would one day be betrayed by one of their own.  He had, in fact, accused Gambit of being the traitor. Everyone had ignored him.

Today, he was no longer so sure.  The evidence still seemed to point to Gambit-- even more so if Star Company was involved.  But he couldn't figure out the Cajun's game.  He was beginning to think it just might be possible that Gambit didn't know any more about what was going on than he did.  That didn't mean he didn't do it.  Only that he was not yet involved.  Bishop didn't for one second consider that Gambit might be innocent.  The Witness had admitted to being there when the X-Men were betrayed.  _Knew it... Saw it... What of it?_  The Witness' words echoed in Bishop's mind.  He had always thought he'd have another chance to ask him what he'd meant by that.  Another chance to dig information out of a senile old shark he now knew was anything but.

How much had the Witness used him? he wondered.  He couldn't possibly have arranged the events that led to Bishop's travel to the current time, yet he seemed to have counted on exactly such an occurrence.  He had spent _years_ planting that code in Bishop's mind.  Was there more, perhaps?  Was Bishop himself serving the Witness' plans without intending to?

Bishop tossed a small rock into the lake.  It disappeared beneath the water's surface with barely a splash and sank quickly out of sight.  Then he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, chin in hand.  What did Star Company have to do with it?

Memory drew Bishop back to his childhood.  He was sixteen.  The Witness had left on some kind of mystery errand, and he and Shard had decided to go snooping.  Even they had never been allowed into the Witness' private suites. They were curious why.

"You realize we are _dead_ if he catches us."  Shard leaned against the doorframe, watching the hall. 

Bishop continued to work on the lock.  It had been a long time since he'd done anything like this.  He'd refused to learn the "business" once he realized what that business really was.  But he had learned a few things from the Witness before that. The lock was more decorative than anything else, considering who lived there.

"Relax, sis," he answered her.  "Archie says he won't be back 'til late.  We've got plenty of time.  I just want to look around."

Shard didn't answer.  The door opened with a whisper of wood on the heavy carpeting.  The room beyond was dark.  Bishop stepped inside and turned on the lights.  Shard followed him, closing the door behind her.

The suite was luxuriously decorated, as Bishop had expected, but with far more taste.  He had been expecting something cheaper, less refined.  Like the decor of an upscale whorehouse.  Instead, the room was oddly comfortable.  A writing desk occupied one corner of the large main room, surrounded by bookshelves.  The desk was teak and glowed with a dark luster that testified to its quality.  The bookshelves were wood as well, stained the same dark color.  A small couch and chairs formed a conversational group in another corner, their style Victorian.  The chairs had their backs to a brick fireplace that dominated the far wall, but it was the painting hung above the mantle that drew Bishop's eye.

"You're drooling, bro."  Shard stepped up behind him and studied the picture.  "Guess she was something, though."  It was the closest she would come to a compliment.

"Do you think he knew her?"

Shard shrugged.  "If the rumors are true, he knew all of them."  She wandered off to examine the rest of the suite, no longer interested in ghosts from the past.  Bishop stared at the painting for a while longer.

Shard had gone through the room's other door, presumably into the bedroom.  Bishop followed her.  Unsurprisingly, the bedroom was dominated by a huge four-poster bed that looked soft enough to swallow a person whole.  The bedspread was made of satin the color of midnight sky.  Bishop trailed his fingers across it as he walked by.  Shard was looking in the closet, her expression one of surprised approval.

"I wonder how old this stuff is," she said, pulling a shirt out to examine it.  "I sure haven't seen the old man in anything like it.  He always looks like a beggar."  

"Yeah.  One of the richest old geezers around, and he can't remember to wear decent clothes."

Shard's smile turned deprecating, matching her brother's tone.  "So where d'ya think he keeps the ragamuffin getups?"

Bishop shrugged.  "The dresser, maybe?"  

Together, they began to investigate the contents of the ornate bureau.  Their caution had fled, both because they hadn't been discovered and out of their shared disgust with the Witness.  There was little of interest to be found.  The bureau was filled with common items of clothing.  The top drawer was more interesting, though.  It was filled with junk.  Bishop found a scattering of pre-war currency, loose rounds of ammunition from various types of weapons, old photographs and holopics of no one he recognized, and even a couple of pieces from a puzzle.  At least it looked like they might belong to the same puzzle.  There was also a stack of yellowed papers that Bishop took out to look at more closely.  Shard sat opposite him, peering at the pages upside down.  The papers were an assortment of essays-- possibly even first drafts-- written by Genesis himself.  Bishop handled the pages with reverence.  Genesis and Cable were the founding fathers of the mutant nation. 

"Wow.  These things ought to be in a museum."  Bishop put the pages back in order.  Shard just shrugged.  She didn't share his love of history.  She returned her interest to the bureau drawer while Bishop set the Genesis papers gently on the carpet beside him.  After a moment, she sat back down.  She held a wooden box in her hands.  The top was inlaid with gold in an abstract pattern, and there was no lock.  Shard set it down on the floor between them and lifted the lid.

Bishop stared in surprise.  The little box was full of medals.  From the war.  One in particular caught his attention.  It was given no more concern than any of the others, so the ribbon was badly wrinkled, but Bishop could tell that that was made of silk the moment he touched it.  The simple emblem that hung from it, cast in silver, was an X enclosed in a circle-- the standard of the X-Men.  It was the highest honor Magneto could have bestowed on anyone in his army.

"I didn't know the old man was in the war," Shard said.  She took the medal from Bishop.  "And a hero, too."

"Don't bet on it, sis," Bishop told her.  "He probably stole this stuff."

"Hmph.  Maybe."  She laid the medal out on the carpet where the X-Men's sacred symbol flashed dully in the light.

Bishop dumped out the rest of the box's contents.  There were several other medals and honors, a Colonel's rank insignia, and a collection of battle pins, each identifying a major engagement.  Some of them Bishop recognized.  Sioux Falls.  Medan Plain.  Manhattan.  He couldn't imagine that the Witness might actually have been in all of those battles.  He couldn't see the Witness as a soldier.

A piece of black cloth fluttered down on top of the pile.  It looked like it had been ripped from a uniform, except for the color.  It bore a simple insignia patch-- a black five-pointed star, outlined in gray.  Part of the gray outline was darkened. Bishop studied it until he realized the stain was blood.  When he rubbed his thumb across it, the blood flaked off in tiny black specks.

"An' jus' _what_ do y' two t'ink y' doin'?"  The Witness' voice was coldly furious.  He stood in the bedroom doorway, power crackling around his hands.

The piece of cloth slid from Bishop's nerveless fingers.  Shard had gone completely white, her eyes wide with guilty fear.  They both stared at the Witness in silence.  Bishop watched the energy glow that surrounded both of the Witness' hands.  He had never actually seen him use his powers, but he had heard of what the man could do.  The Witness had never punished them physically as children, and for the first time, Bishop was truly afraid of what their adopted father might do to them.

"Get out!" the Witness rasped.

Bishop and Shard looked at each other, uncertain.

"_Now!_"

They scrambled to their feet and ran, ducking through the doorway, past the Witness, with the anticipation of a blow that never came.  Bishop stopped running outside the doorway to the suite.  Shard never even paused.  He waited a moment, catching his breath, then peeked back into the room.  Through the far doorway, he could see the Witness kneeling among the scattered items as if he were staring at the shattered remains of a precious sculpture.  He held something clenched in one fist and stared at it with empty eyes.  After a few moments, Bishop realized that it wasn't one of the medals the Witness had picked up, but that little piece of black cloth with the star patch.

#

It took him a while, but Bishop finally found the star insignia in the historical accounts of the mutant-human war.  It was the insignia of something called Star Company, a mercenary band that had fought for the Consortium in various parts of Europe.

"Have you ever heard of Star Company?" he asked Micah the next day.  Micah was his tutor.  His, Shard's, and Shackle's.  Micah was an old man, though not as old as the Witness.  Bishop loved to sit and talk to him because he knew so many stories from the war, bits of trivia that weren't in the histories.  He'd been there.

Micah's eyebrows rose.  "Where did you hear of Star Company?"  There was an edge to his voice Bishop recognized.  It meant that he didn't much like the direction the conversation was headed.  Usually, he only sounded that way when he was forced to deal with the dirtier side of the Witness' business dealings.  Micah was something of a romantic, intensely loyal to the Witness because of something that had happened between them when Micah was young.  He didn't like to see his employer's failings.

"I found an insignia patch from a Star Company uniform in with some old junk that was left over from the war.  I was curious how the Witness got it.  I didn't even know he was in the war."  It wasn't exactly a lie, Bishop told himself.  What he said was all true, in essence.  It just made the Witness sound better than Bishop believed.  But that would make Micah more likely to answer the question.

Micah eyed him as if he might be thinking the same thing, but eventually he answered, "Your father never met Star Company during the war, as far as I know.  Though, that might explain his actions."  Micah's lips pursed as he considered something.

"What actions?"

Micah returned his attention to the present.  His gaze, when he looked at Bishop, was flat and as solemn as Bishop had ever seen him.  "A little more than ten years after the war ended, your father had every single member of Star Company executed.  He never gave any explanation."

Bishop stared at him in silence for several moments.  "How do you know he did it?"

Micah's expression didn't change.  "Because I led that raid."  To Bishop's shocked expression he added, "I fought in the war, boy.  I even met Magneto himself, once.  You didn't think the Witness would entrust me with his children if I weren't a whole lot more than just a scholar, did you?"

#

Bishop stood and stretched, wincing.  He was stiff from sitting in one position for so long.  The sound of the water lapping against the bank seemed mournful now.  He hadn't thought about Micah in years.  Even now the memory was painful.  When Micah had died, it was the first time Bishop really felt like he was losing a member of his family.  He'd been too young to really understand when his parents were killed.

He began to retrace his route back to the mansion, but his mind remained wrapped in his musings.  Mostly, he wondered if the Witness was anything like he had always thought.  He'd learned so much about him lately, more than during his entire time living in the same house with the man.  But the person he was seeing now wasn't anything like the man he grew up with, and he didn't know which was the real thing.  If either of them was.

He wasn't entirely certain he believed the Witness' claim that he had had a part in establishing the mutant nation.  But he couldn't deny the logic of it, and both Cable's and Forge's actions were well documented.  Those parts of the story were true, at least.  It was beginning to seem like the Witness had justifiable reasons for all of the despicable things he'd done.  Star Company could well be just another example of that.  If they were involved with the murders of the X-Men, he could well understand the Witness seeking revenge.  Of course, the Witness could also have had them killed to keep them from ever telling anyone what his real role was in the deaths of the X-Men, too.

Bishop ground his teeth in frustration.  There just weren't any answers!  The Witness-- or Gambit, however you wanted to look at it-- could be the traitor or not, and the facts could support both arguments.  Bishop had no idea how to decide which was the truth.  More striking than that was the fear that he might never know until it was too late.


	15. [15]

Chapter 15

Remy stood in the darkness, watching Rogue sleep.  She was wearing that same blue nightshirt-- ugly, threadbare, and always her favorite.  The light blanket was piled on the floor, kicked off during the night.  Rogue lay sprawled across the bed with carefree abandon, unaware and uncaring if anyone were watching.  She could as easily have been fifteen as twenty-two.  Sleep erased the marks of hard experience from her face, and left her with a sweet, childlike innocence.

Remy resisted the impulse to stroke her cheek.  He wasn't wearing gloves, and she didn't sleep with the power suppressor around her neck.  At least, not yet.  The thought brought a flicker of a smile to his face that faded almost immediately.  He had come seeking reassurance, not romance.  He had found a little of what he was looking for.  He could see the gentle rise and fall of Rogue's breast and knew that she was alive and well.  The silence of the darkened house no longer seemed so ominous.

Remy slipped back to the open window and perched on the sill.  He felt only a little bit like an intruder. His need to see her had been too great to ignore.  Nightmares haunted him now, ever since he'd seen that mercenary.  He remembered little of them, but his dreams were filled with such deep, wrenching pain that he woke to his own sobbing, with screams locked in his throat and no idea what might have caused it.  Tonight he had awakened feeling lost and alone, like the entire world had been ripped away from him.  Those feelings of loss were ebbing now.  He could prove to himself that the things that were most important to him were still in their normal places-- that no devastating catastrophe had struck without his knowing.

A soft whisper of wind alerted him. He ducked the rest of the way out the window.  Storm hovered level with his second story perch, the wind that supported her billowing her silk pajamas, and spreading her hair around her like a halo.  Remy leapt from the window, landing lightly on the lawn.  Storm touched down beside him.  Her smile was both curious and friendly.

"Your relationship with Rogue is no secret, Remy.  Would it not be easier to use the door?"

"I was tryin' not t' wake her."

Storm studied him with sudden concern.  She always had had a knack for knowing when he was upset,even when she was living as a child, unaware of her true identity.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Remy shrugged.  "It's nothin', chere."

She stepped closer and cupped his cheek in her hand.  "My friend, I know you better than that."  She did.  She was, very easily, the best friend Remy had.  Except for Rogue, perhaps, and that was different.

Remy sighed and stepped away from her.  How could he explain?  "There's jus'... somet'ing wrong... " He waved an arm vaguely, unable to put his fears into words.

"Something is wrong here?  At the mansion?"  

Remy shook his head and laid one hand on his chest.  "No, here.  Wit' me."

Storm closed the distance between them again.  "Many things have happened of late, and we do not yet understand their importance.  That does not mean that there is anything wrong with you."

Remy didn't look at her.  "Don' mean dere ain't, neither."

Storm was silent for several long moments.  Remy snuck a glance at her, only to find her studying him, her expression guarded.

"Tell me, Remy, _do_ you know anything else about the deaths of the X-Men?  Anything you have not said?"  The question was neutral-- serious, but without accusation.  It hurt nonetheless.  Storm's trust was a precious gift. He had always worked hard to live up to that expectation.  Even a waver in her trust felt like a knife blade.

"Non," he finally answered her.  "I don' _know_ anyt'ing."  He forced himself to meet her gaze, wishing he could beg her to believe him.  But he was too proud for that, and they both knew it.

Storm's expression didn't change.  "Then why do you carry so much guilt?"

Remy stared at her, speechless.  In the course of a few words, Storm had finally put a name to the fear that haunted him.  He was no stranger to guilt-- he carried enough around to drown an elephant.  But he hadn't been able to identify the gnawing ache inside him every time he thought about the X-Men dying.  Just knowing what it was gave him a small sense of relief, but that was quickly buried beneath new fears.  _Why_ would he feel guilty-- especially for something that hadn't happened yet?  And especially when he hadn't _done_ anything?  He really hadn't done anything, had he?  As rotten as his past was, he couldn't think of anything that would tie in to the X-Men.

"Remy?"  Storm's voice was low and full of concern.  

Remy blinked and looked at her.  He had no idea how long he had been standing there in silence, lost in his thoughts.  When he spoke, it was difficult to force the words out through the tightness in his throat.

"I... I have dis feelin' dat it's all my fault.  Dat de X-Men are gon' die because o' me."

"Why?"

"I... don' know, chere... I jus'... I t'ink I was dere.  An' it's because o' somet'ing I did, or didn' do, maybe..."

Storm cocked her head.  "Remy, you are speaking in the past tense."

"Oui."  That was the most frightening part of all.  "I feel like it's already happened-- de X-Men are already dead.  We jus' haven' gotten dere yet."

Storm's eyebrows rose.  "That is foolish."  Her tone brooked no argument.  "We know that the future is not pre-determined.  Bishop's experiences in the alternate world of Apocalype have proven that.  Or have you not been listening to Hank's occasional tirades on the subject?"  Her expression lightened, and a slow smile encouraged him to share the joke.  But he couldn't find a smile to give her.

Storm touched his cheek, solemn once more.  "Perhaps you have a touch of prescience.  That might explain any number of things."

"Maybe."  It was something to consider, at least.  Still, he'd never been able to guess the future before.  If he had, he would have avoided a lot of the stupid mistakes he'd made.

Storm gave him a quick hug.  She was not a demonstrative person, reaching out physically as a matter of choice and will rather than instinct, so the gesture meant a lot to Remy.

"T'anks, chere."

She smiled.  "Talk to Professor Xavier.  He may be able to explain what is happening to you."

Remy hesitated.  "I'll t'ink about it."

The wind rose around them, billowing their clothing and laying the grass flat.  Storm lifted off of the ground as if she weighed no more than a soap bubble.  "Goodnight, then," she told him as she drifted higher.

"Goodnight," he called after her. He watched as she arced over the rooftop and dropped out of sight on the far side.  Then he sighed.  He had some thinking to do.  Talking to the professor might be a good idea, but he had the feeling he was going to have to be ready to lay down all of his cards before Xavier could be of much help.  That was a risk he wasn't sure he was ready to take.

#

"So what's up, Chuck?"  Wolverine asked as he entered the room.  He nodded to several of the gathered X-Men then settled against the edge of Charles' desk, arms crossed.  The study was beginning to feel crowded, and there were a few yet to arrive.  Charles greeted Wolverine, but did not answer his question.  He would have to wait along with everyone else.

The conversations in the room were muted, as if no one were paying much attention to what they were saying.  It was a way to cover their curiosity.  They could all sense that something important was going to happen, but were too polite to speculate out loud.  Two people sat at the focus of that curiosity:  Gambit was curled up in one of the stuffed leather-bound chairs, looking more unhappy with every passing moment, and Emma Frost sat silently in a similar chair on the other side of the desk.  Charles had explained only sketchily when he had requested her presence, but her demeanor was as placid and aloof as always.  She lounged in her chair with complete confidence, utterly still except for the miniscule tapping of her booted foot.

Jean and Betsy arrived last.  They had been in another room, talking over their respective parts in the coming exercise.  At least, an "exercise" was how Charles was choosing to look at it.  What he was proposing to do could be quite dangerous.  Hopefully, the results would prove the risk well worth taking.  Jean nodded to him. The two women found places around the room.

Charles glanced briefly at Rogue.  He wasn't certain what Remy had told her, but she sat a little ways from him, her expression a mixture of frustration and worry.  He had gotten the impression she had tried to argue with him, but hadn't been able to raise any response.  Remy had grown very withdrawn, as if he were awaiting execution, almost.  Charles was startled by the sudden revelation.  Though he didn't know why, he now realized that the young man was indeed waiting for his life to end-- figuratively, if not literally.  

Charles cleared his throat.  "Thank you all for your swift arrival.  I know you are curious as to why I've summoned you."  A few nods followed his words, but no one spoke.

"As you are all aware, a number of events throughout the past few months have placed a great deal of emphasis on the possibility that the X-Men will be betrayed and killed at some point in the future.  This is the future history of which Bishop warned us when he first arrived here."  Bishop leaned forward in his chair, his expression both surprised and intense.

"These events also seem to revolve around Gambit's presence with the X-Men, though the reasons for this are unclear."  Charles gestured toward Remy, who did not acknowledge him.  He stared steadily at a point in space, apparently oblivious to everything around him.  Charles doubted that, but did not see the need to disturb him at this point.

"Remy and I have spoken about this at great length, and he is willing to allow me to probe his memories for anything that may shed light on the mystery."  Expressions of surprise were mirrored around the room at the pronouncement.  Some were disbelieving.  Not that Charles could blame them.  He'd been shocked when Remy had proposed the idea to him, and from their conversation had gotten the distinct impression that Remy had reasons other than his crippled telepathic skills for wanting to keep his thoughts private.  But there was a heavy measure of desperation in the young Cajun.  He, at least, was convinced he was responsible for the deaths of the X-Men, though he continued to vehemently deny any knowledge of those deaths.  

Charles shook off his thoughts and continued his explanation.  "Because of the unknown nature of Remy's telepathic abilities, there is a fair amount of danger associated with a mind probe.  Not only to those of us involved, but quite possibly to anyone in the vicinity.  Therefore, Jean will be acting as my backup so she can shield me if necessary and vice versa.  I have asked Emma to join us as well. She and Elizabeth will be ready to act if there is any risk to all of you.  If you wish, you can simply leave the grounds.  Distance should provide sufficient protection.  I would suggest that you take yourselves a fair distance away, however-- into town, at the very least."

"Isn't this a little extreme?"  Scott's attention was split between his wife and Charles.

Charles nodded.  "Probably.  But I would rather be prepared for any contingency."

Wolverine was watching Remy intently, his customary scowl in place.  "You really o.k. with this, Cajun?" he asked gruffly.  Those who knew him well could see that his roughness masked a deep concern.  Of all of the X-Men, Charles thought, Wolverine probably understood Gambit better than anyone else.  He was certainly the closest male friend Remy had among them.

"It was my idea, Logan."  Remy's answer was faint.  He didn't move, nor did his empty gaze change.  Rogue chewed on her lip, as if resisting the impulse to say something. Her eyes on Wolverine were full of mute appeal.

Wolverine shrugged as if the answer were good enough for him.

Charles took a deep breath and surveyed the room.  Unsurprisingly, no one was gathering himself to leave.  He had figured that curiosity would keep them all present.  Not just because of the possibility of exposing the betrayal, but because they might unravel some of the mystery of Gambit himself.

"Very well," Charles said.  "Jean, are you ready?"

Jean nodded and brought a chair over to sit beside him.  Charles looked at Betsy and Emma, and received their nods in return.

"Remy?"

The red eyes flicked to him, filled with apprehension.  But as Charles opened his mind, he could feel the walls that surrounded Remy's thoughts being dismantled, piece by piece, as the young man struggled to allow him access.  He felt Jean's presence join his, and together they stepped inside.


	16. [16]

Chapter 16

Charles gritted his teeth against the normal disorientation of entering another mind.  It reminded him of the one time in his youth that he had been talked into riding one of those spinning rides at the amusement park that stuck you to the sides of the room and then dropped the floor away.  Not only had it made him nauseous, but for several hours afterwards he had felt like the world were slightly canted, and no effort of will on his part would straighten it.  The feeling persisted as Charles pressed slowly into Remy's mind.  He was trying to make their entrance as unintrusive as possible, despite the discomfort.

As if emerging from a dense fog, the version of New Orleans they had walked before coalesced around them, but it did not become real.  This was not where Charles wanted to go.  This was Remy's conscious construct-- how he defined his mind to himself.  It was a reflection of the conscious mind, with all of its opinions, emotions and self-deceits.  Since that was what they had been searching for before, that was where they had gone.  But now, Charles wanted to access the subconscious mind-- the part that recorded everything without prejudice.  That was why the subconscious often drew conclusions that the conscious mind could not.  It was the only one with access to all of the available information.  Remy's memories would be stored there, complete and in chronological order.

The city began to fade around them as Charles pushed deeper.  He had not gone very far when the resistance began.  Because Remy was conscious, he was aware of what Charles and Jean were experiencing.  In some respects, he would be experiencing it with them.  In turn, they also could feel his reactions.  They could feel his emotions, and would see the effects of whatever he was thinking on the substance of his mind.  They were too deep to read thoughts easily, though.  Right now, Remy was sending them fear and pain.  Charles was surprised that his probe actually _hurt_.  Most people were frightened at the sensation of another mind delving into their own, but Remy had been so badly traumatized by the death he had experienced mind to mind, that he now interpreted an intimate mind touch as pain.  Despite his desire to allow the probe, Remy was resisting them out of pure panic.  The harder Charles pushed, the stronger the waves of fear/pain/darkness/loss from Remy that pummeled him and Jean.

"Charles, we can't do this," Jean protested.  Her green eyes were unearthly bright against the stormy darkness around them.  "It's too painful for him."

"If Remy had not _asked_ me to do this, I would agree," Charles answered.  "But he did, and I think this pain may be more easily conquered than the fears that plague him now."

"Then first we're going to have to calm him down."  Jean winced as another wave of blackness rolled over them.  It felt as if they were being pounded by a black surf, tossed and spun by the force of it, but they had no references to tell if they were really moving or not.  Everything around them was roiling black and gray.

A small light began to shine in front of Jean.  It was the color of firelight, but steady.  As the light reached him, Charles felt her projection of warmth and security, a motherly protectiveness with just a hint of sexuality.  It was a conglomeration of all of the things a woman could be.  Charles approved.  Something would have to strike a chord with Remy.

#

"He's resisting."  Emma Frost watched the young man across Xavier's desk.  She was the contact link between Jean and the professor and the outside world.  

Elizabeth glanced at her.  "That is not surprising."  She went back to her scan.  So far, nothing seemed to be disturbing the astral plane.  Betsy was not quite willing to admit that she was nervous.  She, of all of them, had met Gambit's uncontrolled powers.  She wasn't entirely certain she would be able to protect the X-Men.  But, she reminded herself, that was why Emma was there.  Between them, they should be a match for any single telepath.

Gambit's eyes were closed, his high brows deeply furrowed.  Elizabeth could see the knotted muscles of his jaw in clear relief.  Hopefully, he wouldn't end up breaking his teeth, she thought absently.  In his lap, the long fingered hands were balled into fists that quivered occasionally.  Rogue had moved over next to him, her earlier anger apparently forgotten.  She was in full uniform, as they all were, and she rested one gloved hand on his knee.

Emma turned to look at Jean, and Betsy could feel her surprise through their light link, though Emma gave her no details.  Emma grinned, her gaze flicking between Jean and Scott.  For his part, Scott only watched his wife with poorly concealed concern, and ignored the rather feline expression directed at him.  At the same time, Gambit's tension began to ease, though his brows remained furrowed.

"They're in," Emma said.  She was still grinning.  Betsy didn't think the smile had anything to do with Jean and the Professor's success.

"You find this amusing?" she asked the White Queen.  Rogue turned to stare at Emma, her expression darkening just slightly into what the X-Men had learned to identify as her "dangerous" look.

Emma's confidence did not waver.  "Oh no," she answered.  "I am simply being forced to re-evaluate my opinion of Mrs. Summers."  Despite the stares, she did not expand on her cryptic statement.

#

The light grew brighter, extending beyond them and reaching out to the mind that surrounded them.  Jean's eyes were closed in concentration, her brow furrowed as she forced the light outward.  The tumult began to ease, and Charles found his way getting easier.  Each push inward still required tremendous effort, but they were no longer pounded by the dizzying black waves.  Jean drifted beside him, eyes closed.  Charles kept hold of her and pulled her along after him.  She had no attention to spare for where they were going.  

After what seemed like a very long time, they broke through.  The swirling grays and blacks gave way to a ribbon of mixed colors, surrounded by emptiness.  Charles breathed a sigh of relief and Jean opened her eyes.  This was a normal memory string.

Jean smiled tiredly at him.  "I don't think I want to know how close we just came to getting blasted."

Charles studied her with concern.  He was beginning to feel some small amount of fatigue himself, and she seemed to be worse off.  If their level of energy expenditure continued this way, they were going to find themselves in trouble long before they finished what they had come to do.  If they were lucky, of course, the worst was past.  And they did have Betsy and Emma to draw on, if it became necessary.

Together they moved toward the far end of the pulsing string.  Like always, it seemed to be a living thing when viewed from outside, a record of the living force that surrounded them that somehow seemed to take on life of its own.  Charles was always astounded by how beautiful the mind could be, how vibrant.  It was one of the things that encouraged him whenever he felt like giving up on a person.  Even Sabretooth's mind had had aspects of beauty to it.

They followed the memory string to its far end, which represented Remy's earliest memory.  

"It's cut off very sharply," Jean observed.  Normally, this end of the string was a bit fuzzy and frayed due to the indistinct half-memories of very early experiences that most people retained.

Charles shrugged.  "That is unusual, but not particularly alarming.  Every mind works differently.  Perhaps we should see where his memory begins.  That may explain why the cutoff is so distinct."

Jean took a deep breath.  "I hope we're doing the right thing, Charles."

Charles took her hand and squeezed it.  "So do I."

Together they touched the end of the painted ribbon.  The colors seemed to explode around them, swirling violently at first and then slowly settling into their places as a scene took shape around the two visitors.  This was what Charles had dubbed "real memory".  He and Jean had no real presence here.  They were like ghosts, and would have no ability to influence what they saw.  

A dark alleyway formed around them.  The buildings were tall and lightless. Rough cobblestones stretched away under their feet.  They had been there before, or someplace very much like it. The cold rain sheeted down out of a night-gray sky, though this time they couldn't feel it.

"New Orleans."  It wasn't a question.  Jean turned a full circle, studying their surroundings.

"Indeed."  Charles, too, looked around.  "He did grow up here."  As he spoke, a familiar figure came into view.  They had met this child before, as well.

The boy wandered down the alley toward them, back hunched against the rain.  His red hair was plastered to his head, and he had his arms wrapped around himself as meager protection from the cold.  They could hear the rapid breathing, broken by occasional sniffles, as if he had been crying for a long time and had finally run out of tears.  Charles would still put his age at four or five.  He wore a blue blanket sleeper-- the kind with the white feet-- that seemed to be a constant among small children.

Jean moved closer to Charles, as if for comfort.  Her sigh was heartfelt and sad, but her comment was acute.  "He seems healthy enough."

Charles considered the child that had passed and was now retreating from their view.  "Yes.  Whatever happened to separate him from his family, it must have only just occurred.  That would explain the abrupt beginning of his memories.  I suspect everything before this point in time was simply wiped out by the trauma."

"I guess we'll never know where he came from, then, or who his parents were.  That's too bad.  Rogue said that it really bothered him, even if he'd never admit it."

Charles nodded noncommittally.  There was nothing they could do.  "We should get to work," he said.

Jean nodded, and they began to move along the memory string.  Events flowed by, almost like a movie but with more depth.  Time seemed highly flexible, so that the events they witnessed occurred in order and with palpable spacing, but yet that much time did not seem to pass for them personally.  

As they watched, the lost child wandered, running away from everyone he encountered-- both those who would hurt him, and those who would help.  He sank close to starvation before he learned where he could scrounge in relative safety.  Careful observation taught him the rules of the street.  He stayed away from the sharks-- the gangs and the pimps-- and stuck to the shadows, surviving in invisibility.

He rarely spoke, but when he did it was, at first, in English-- _good_ English, Charles noticed, and later in the gutter French of the street.  He learned how to beg, and who would take pity on a street rat.  And he learned how to steal from the revelers and tourists that thronged the city streets.  It was more difficult than it sounded.  The Thieves' Guild didn't like anyone crowding in on their territory, so he had to learn to pick only small targets, those beneath the Guild's notice.

At first Charles was surprised to see the boy taking in several other children, watching over them to make sure they got enough to eat and that they stayed out of the way of the truly dangerous.  Then he realized that he shouldn't be surprised at all.  One thing that had always been a constant with Remy was family.  Every time he had lost his, he had found a way to build a new one.

Years passed. They watched the boy grow up into a strange mixture of human being and wild animal.  The street children all had a feralness to them.  They fought savagely to survive, willing to shed blood in an instant if they felt threatened, yet they somehow remained children.  They stood at the store windows and stared in wide-eyed wonder at the model trains that wove in and out at the base of the Christmas trees, and ran laughing through the streets the one time Remy found a half-full plastic jar of bubble soap with the wand still inside.

He and Jean went on, past the day when the head of the Thieves Guild caught Remy trying to pick his pocket and had taken him home.  Eventually, at least.  In telling that story to them, Remy had neglected to mention that it took Jean-Luc LeBeau nearly three weeks to coax the wary, wild creature into his home, and even longer than that to tame him.  It was incredibly cliche, but Charles and Jean had leaned against each other and laughed to see four grown men and women unable to contain one eleven-year-old who had absolutely no intention of letting anyone take comb or scissors to his hair.

Charles had long suspected the truth-- that the thieves of New Orleans carried an amazing amount of the mutant factor in their genes.  Remy grew up in a world of mutants, where almost everyone had powers of some sort.  So he was only a little surprised when his own powers surfaced.  Charles had to give the thieves credit for that.  Remy's transition into his powers was one of the most painless he had ever seen.  The guild family was tight; Remy was encouraged and reassured, taught and corrected in the use of his powers from the very beginning.

And yet, his life was filled with a strange dichotomy.  To Remy it didn't seem strange, because he had lived that way all of his life.  But Charles was appalled by the duality.  On one hand, the thieves were intensely loyal to each other.  Children were doted on by all of the adults, regardless of who they really belonged to.  They were protected and cared for, just as the adults were willing to put their lives on the line to defend anyone who was a member of the Guild.  But they also trained their children to be killers in the feud with the assassin's guild.  At times, any chance meeting between members of the two guilds would end in death for someone.  Remy had learned to always be alert because death could be preparing to spring out of the darkness at him at any time.

They followed Remy through the flush of first love with Belladona.  Their affair had sparked the idea of peace between the two clans.  Charles tried to accelerate their pace.  This was history they knew. Nothing seemed to point to anything outside of the two guilds.

They watched Sabretooth murder the girl, Genevieve, in France and were appalled, but unsurprised.  It took Remy and his brother two months to track Sabretooth back to his employer and then steal the necklace from him.  The experience changed the teenage Remy from a boy playing games into a professional thief.  A month later, he was married, but the promise of love and peace made on that day were shattered by Belledona's brother, Julienne.  Remy was forced to kill him in a duel-- though Charles hoped that he might spare Julienne's life if he had the day to live over again-- and was then banished from New Orleans for it.

Charles and Jean remained silent as they followed Remy through the next years, as he wandered across the planet and back-- honing his abilities, and building a reputation as a talented thief.  But other than the contracts he took, his life seemed to be nothing more than a continual search for the next party.  Charles understood the emptiness that drove him, and the desperation to fill it with anything that came along.  They watched sadly as he was driven further and further down the dark ways-- 

"Charles, wait."  Jean's voice interrupted his thoughts.  They paused, and Charles turned to face her.

"What is it?"

"Something's missing."  She waved her hand, encompassing all of Remy's life with the gesture.  "We've been looking for things that are tied to the deaths of the X-Men-- but what about the things that _aren't_ here?"

"Such as?"  But he realized the answer as soon as he spoke.  "Ah.  Telepathy."  He felt foolish for not having seen it himself.

Jean nodded.  "We know he's an alpha class telepath, but he hasn't shown more than an ounce of telepathic power.  Just that low level hypnotic charm, which is as much a matter of personality as anything else."

"Perhaps its emergence was delayed until later.  Magneto did not come into his powers until he was in his twenties."

"That was because of the disease he suffered as a teenager.  Remy didn't have anything like that happen to him, and his other powers showed exactly when they were supposed to.  But no telepathy."

Charles pondered the questions.  He had already developed a few of his own during his few discussions with Gambit and his observations during their last excursion into his mind, and was now almost amused by how stubbornly unanswerable they seemed to be.

"What's so funny?"  Jean was watching him curiously.

Charles sighed.  "I shouldn't be laughing.  It's just frustration.  Here I've been, thinking all along that a chance to mindscan Gambit would resolve all of the questions I have-- and all I'm discovering is more questions.  The man is a complete enigma."

Jeans expression told him that she shared some of his feelings.  "So which questions are we talking about?"

"Do you want the whole list?"

"How about just the highlights."

Charles crossed his arms and stared downward while he organized his thoughts.  "All right.  One-- our newest one.  As you said, we know Gambit is a telepath, but he doesn't ever seem to have developed the power.  Perhaps it will emerge later-- we still have a few years to cover.  But perhaps not.  

"Two-- we know Remy killed someone through a telepathic link, but he claims he doesn't remember doing so.  This, also, is something we haven't seen.  It, also, may be yet to come.  

"Three-- and on a slightly different topic.  Gambit seems to have three distinctly different alpha class powers.  One is the norm, like Scott's optic blasts or Bobby's ice powers.  Even Storm only has _one_ power, despite how flexible the application of that one power.  I have only one power.  You have two powers-- telepathy and telekinesis-- which are closely linked.  Very rarely, we find mutants with two dissimilar powers.  But three is almost unheard of.  My son Legion is the only one I can think of who had more."  Charles paused at the memory.  His son's death was still painful, though it had been Legion's own doing.  Legion had had a veritable legion of powers, with a different personality to go with each one.  And when his mind had become somewhat whole, he had even had the ability to move through time. 

Charles pushed the thoughts away and went on.  "Four-- Gambit's agility is beyond human, but doesn't appear to be a mutant power.  He showed the same abilities throughout his childhood, though they have increased with age and practice."

Jean's eyebrows arched slowly as she catalogued each of his points.  "I do agree it's odd," she finally said.  "Still, there has to be an explanation somewhere.  Either we've missed it, or it hasn't happened to Remy yet.  Maybe we should just go on and see if we understand once we've caught up to the present."

Charles nodded, acceding her point.  Together they began to move forward once again.  Familiar names and faces swept by-- Candra, the Silver Samurai, Storm's friend Yukio, Sabretooth, as well as a large number of people they did not recognize.  Each encounter seemed to leave the young Cajun colder, more isolated, and more willing to dish out the same kinds of abuse.

"Not a very nice person, I'm afraid," Charles commented at one point.  Sadly, it was true.  They watched in chill horror as he escaped an Interpol prison to go hunting for the agent who had put him there, intending to kill her.  The woman's name was Tanya, and she had fooled him completely.  He had fallen for her, believing that she loved him in return, but she had only been searching for evidence to use to convict him.  She had done her job with ruthless efficiency and flawless acting.  They could feel echoes of the pain of that betrayal from the mind around them, mixed with anger for having been taken in, and even a sense that he deserved what he'd gotten.  Charles remembered Genevieve and wondered if that wasn't true.  

As they progressed forward from that point, the pain that emanated from Remy increased, mixing with black fear.  Charles began to dread seeing the young woman's fate.  

When that fate came, it was not what Charles expected.

#

"Emma?"

The White Queen didn't respond to the question, but Betsy felt their mind link tighten.  Together they began to erect shields to protect the others in the room from the spiraling waves of hate and fear emanating from Gambit.  At first, the emotions had been unfocused, but they were beginning to harden into sharp barbs that could indeed injure the unprotected minds around them.  Betsy could tell they were directed randomly, which she found reassuring, but they were also increasing in intensity.

"What's going on?" Scott asked.

Emma seemed to have realized the seriousness of her involvement.  She was not smiling when she answered, "I believe the term is 'hold on to your hat', Scott."

"An' what is _that_ supposed ta mean?"  Rogue leaned forward in her chair.

"Only that Remy is beginning to throw out dangerous psychic energy," Betsy answered calmly.  The last thing they needed was Rogue in a tizzy.  "We don't have any way to know how intense it will get."

#

Remy was waiting for Tanya in her apartment, sitting on the couch with a glass of champagne in hand.  The bottle was in ice on the side table, with an empty glass next to it.  The scene was identical to the one he had come home to that last night, except that he did not have a swat team hidden away, ready to jump out and ambush her.  He had only his powers and his anger, but those were more than enough.

He took her to an old warehouse, a cement and metal building that seemed cold even in the middle of summer.  It was cold there, and damp, and gray and oppressive, seeming to steal the air away before one had the chance to breathe it.  Just like the interrogation cell buried beneath the "Justice Building", as the members of Interpol who worked there jokingly called it.

He stripped her and tied her into the hard metal chair.  She had simply stared back.  She was familiar with intimidation tactics.  She had been on the other side before, spitting insults-- both professionally and personally derogatory-- at his bare skin. They had struck like tiny whips.  So he returned the favor.  Interpol had grilled him for a confession of espionage against several European countries at the behest of certain Asian parties-- namely clan Yashida.  But he grilled her for a confession of her betrayal.  Hunting him was one thing-- that was her job as an agent.  But she had made him believe, for the first time since leaving New Orleans, that he might be able to regain his shattered dreams of a family, children, and a safe place, full of love, in which he could hide from the ugliness the world seemed determined to throw at him.

The pain of having those hopes revived and then slaughtered became rage as he stared at the woman who had done it, and who did not even regret her actions.  He had meant only to scare her, to give her a taste of the pain he felt as she and the other agents had turned slightly illegal methods on him to gain a confession.  But somewhere in there, he lost all rationality, and when he finally regained it, the damage was done.

Tanya lay on her side, the heavy chair knocked over.  She was sobbing in fear, begging him over and over again not to kill her.  The proud demeanor was broken, as was her will, leaving nothing but a frightened child behind.  Long, bloody lines crisscrossed her face and torso-- shallow knife wounds that would leave dark scars.  One eye was ruined, though that was hard to tell through the bruises.  

It was a horrible thing to see any person broken down so completely.  It was a desecration of the human spirit.  But to be the one who had done it... Remy had turned and run.  Away from her, away from himself, until he collapsed in the darkened street, retching and crying.

Charles discovered he could summon only pity, not compassion.  He was utterly horrified by the darkness that lurked in the young man's heart.

Beside Charles, Jean gasped.  "Sinister."  She pointed at the darkness where the pale skinned man emerged and stood watching Remy.  Almost paternally, he helped Remy to his feet and led him away.

#

Scott was on his feet, hands gripping the back of his chair until the knuckles turned white.  "What's going on?!" he demanded angrily.

Elizabeth did not have much attention to spare for him.  The psychic assault was becoming intense, though it was still undirected.  Still, she looked questioningly at Scott.

"Jean is practically screaming at me through our rapport, but I can't tell what she's saying!"  Scott's hands went to the sides of his head and then back to the chair, leaving his hair in disarray.  "Is she all right?"  His expression was distraught as he stared at Emma.

Some of the White Queen's placid facade had worn away.  She was beginning to show some signs of strain.  "As far as I can tell, she is unharmed," she answered Scott.  "But both she and Charles are extremely disturbed emotionally and it's affecting their astral selves.  I expect they are simply reacting to him," she pointed to Remy.  "_He_ is about to come unglued."

Rogue started and began to look frantically between Remy and Emma.  "Why?  What's wrong?"

Emma shrugged and did not answer.  Storm placed a restraining hand on Rogue's shoulder.

"Emma is doing what the Professor asked of her.  She cannot help us or Remy if she is dealing with you."  There was no compromise in the blue eyes that skewered Rogue.  Storm took a steaming mug of tea from the tray she had just brought in and pressed it into Rogue's unresisting hands.  "Drink this.  There is nothing we can do but wait."  As she turned away, Betsy caught a glimpse of shadow in Storm's eyes.  She would not show her concern so as to be an example of strength to the others, but she, too, was desperately worried.

#

Strangely, Sinister was patient and almost kind in dealing with his emotionally wounded charge, but Charles could see the true intent behind the kindness.  Sinister had found a weapon, one that was vulnerable enough to be molded into whatever he wanted.  Over time, Remy became exactly that.  He used his abilities to charm, cajole and extort people to serve Sinister's interests, even helping to kidnap those Sinister chose as test subjects for his genetic research.  That research was carried out in the basement of an abandoned theatre in Seattle.

For a time, Remy simply did not care about the consequences of what he did.  Sinister had convinced him that he was the only friend Remy had, and the young man proved once again to be stubbornly loyal to those he saw as family.  But eventually he could no longer deny the truth of the horrible things Sinister did to his "patients".  They began to argue over Sinister's actions until the day that Remy's scarred, tattered conscience could no longer ignore the plight of Sinister's victims.  His own victims, since he was as much a part of their being there as Sinister.  He had come to see Tanya's face every time he looked at one of them.  

He had tried to free them-- those that were still able to care about such a thing, at least-- but Sinister arrived in time to stop him.  Sinister was far too powerful for Remy to beat in a one-on-one fight.  Sinister had left him, bloody, bruised, and in tremendous pain from the shards of broken ribs that lacerated his insides, caged in the lab.  He had been able to do nothing but watch as Sinister continued his "research".  Eventually, Sininster treated the wounds, but did not release his captive.  Charles guessed that he did not intend to until he was certain that Remy's rebellious spirit was completely dead.  

But even he, perhaps, underestimated Gambit's ability to create a facade so complete that most would never think to look for a different person behind it.  Sinister released a subdued, apologetic young man, who went back to doing what he was told, just as before.  

Sinister's research included the use of a number of different chemicals, some of them in quantity.  In the course of cleaning the lab, those containers housing the more volatile materials were slowly rearranged. Convinced that leaving these people in Sinister's clutches was the worst thing he could do, Remy picked his time.  Sinister was deeply involved in a dissection. Remy was supposed to be sedating another patient for the same treatment.  Instead, he went to the stairs and used his charged cards to ignite the chemicals he had set up.  He knew what he was doing-- the result was a set of multiple explosions of napalm-like liquid that clung and burned nearly everything, bringing swift death to all those in the basement lab.  Sinister's roar of fury was drowned in cleansing fire. Then Remy had left, before the fumes overcame him, hoping desperately that Sinister was dead and that his memories could be destroyed as easily as the lab.

Charles was shaking.  He looked at Jean and saw tears glimmer in her eyes.  

"This is what nearly drove Rogue insane, isn't it?"

Charles nodded.  "I think so."  It was hard to speak around the lump in his throat.  He wasn't certain how he felt.  He was angry and frightened, horrified and sympathetic, all at the same time.  He knew his own emotions were resonating with Remy's as the Cajun relived his actions.  The hurt ran very deep, and it was a wound that had never healed.

"We've found a threat to the X-Men, at least," he added a few moments later.

Neither of them felt like talking, so they simply continued on.  Remy went back to his thief's ways, but stayed away from people.  Time covered the wounds somewhat, and the cocky Cajun charmer they were used to began to emerge again.

Then a telepath sent by Interpol tried to probe his mind.  Charles and Jean had to shield themselves from the intense flash of pain.  They could see a jagged tear in the memory strand corresponding to that moment in time.  The strand was fuzzy on the far side where it picked up, becoming clearer as Remy regained his memories in a British mental asylum.  The events were just as Remy had described them to Charles, and gave him no clue as to when the damage to Gambit's telepathic powers might have occurred.

Jean chewed her lip as she considered.  "This just doesn't make sense.  Suddenly his mind is damaged?  When could that have happened?"

"I don't know.  It is almost as if he didn't _have_ any telepathic power until someone tried to probe him.  I suppose it's possible it was the feedback from this telepath's death that caused the damage."  Charles knew his words lacked conviction.

"No, it was a classic trauma-induced reaction from the moment their minds met.  We're here, we can see that clearly."  Jean was frustrated.

Charles sighed.  "We only have a couple of years to go.  Let's finish this."

Jean nodded.  She was as uncomfortable as he was.  Gambit had turned out to be both more and less than they had expected.  Charles was acutely aware of his disappointment.  Not just in Remy, but also in the world that had treated him so harshly.  Charles could not help but blame Remy for the damage he had caused, and yet, he had paid dearly, hadn't he?  In the coin of the soul, at least.

#

Betsy sighed and rubbed her temples.  "Hopefully, that was the worst."  The pain was easing.  From the expressions around her, she could tell that the others could sense the change, even if they couldn't put a name to what was different.

Only Rogue had not stirred as if being released from some unknown miasma.  She leaned towards Remy, staring intently at the still figure.  Then she reached toward his face, and to Betsy's surprise, brushed the tears from his cheeks.  Remy did not respond to the touch.

#

Some months later, Sinister found his recalcitrant protégé.  The sudden surge of panicked fear from discovering that Sinister was still alive struck him like a physical blow.  Charles and Jean exchanged worried glances.  How much more trouble had Sinister caused for the young mutant?  Charles wasn't certain he could stand to be a witness to much more.  

Sinister tried to recruit Remy for a mutant team he was putting together.  Several of the members were there with him, and Charles recognized them with a sense of dread.

"The Marauders... "  He didn't finish the thought aloud.

Remy refused, but Sinister continued to press him, appearing several times in the next weeks to remind him of what he supposedly "owed" Sinister for the destruction of his lab and research.  In the end, Remy gave in-- not by joining the Marauders, but by offering Sinster another name, a mutant who would fit perfectly into Sinister's plan.  Victor Creed.  Sabretooth.  Remy thought that would make him even with Sinister, and perhaps buy him a little distance from the man.

Charles and Jean looked at each other.  Finally, Jean put their thoughts into words.  "The Mutant Massacre."

Charles sighed.  "He didn't know what Sinister had planned."  It was a weak defense, and Charles knew it.  Jean just shook her head.

They continued forward in time, watching as a child-Storm plummeted into a swimming pool, almost at Remy's feet.  He had dragged her out of the water and helped her to escape the Shadow King, willingly risking his life to protect an innocent.  It was an act of penance, Charles realized, as well as one born out of a real desire to see a child safe.  That penance continued with the X-Men.  Charles finally had an answer to one question-- he knew why Gambit stayed with the X-Men and fought for a cause he didn't believe in.  He had found a way to improve the world a little bit, or at least die trying, and he hoped that that would somehow make up for the things he'd done in the past.

A smile crossed Jean's face as they watched Remy encounter Rogue for the first time.  It was on Muir Island, after the Shadow King had been destroyed and his influence erased from their minds.  It was that kind of hammer-blow-between-the-eyes kind of feeling Jean remembered when she had first met Scott.  Rogue's seeming untouchability made her that much more attractive.

Ororo's unconditional friendship had given Remy a chance to believe in people once more, but it was Rogue's tentative love that gave him a reason to want to believe in himself.  As Rogue had fought to overcome her fears, to reach out to him, to believe that the impossible could become possible with them, he had started to find the strength to believe, too.

And then, that day in Israel, he had risked everything for one instant of time in which their dreams could become reality.  It had seemed like the only way to let their lives end.  But they had lived through, instead.  The sensation of losing his mind to Rogue's powers left Charles and Jean feeling like they were plunging off of a cliff, but they held on and the sensation disappeared once he woke, three weeks later.  But by then Rogue was gone.   She knew the truth, and his dreams were shattered once more.

The last few months flew by without surprises.  Charles and Jean came to the end of the memory strand.  Jean hugged her arms around herself.

"I don't know whether to hate him or cry for him," she admitted.

"Neither do I," Charles agreed.  "But he _is_ trying to do what is right.  We have to remember that."

"I know.  I-- it's hard.  How do we forgive?"

"However we can, Jean."  Charles sighed.  "I would have struggled, I think, to forgive Sabretooth for his past if he had ever had a true change of heart.  And yet, I must believe that I would have found a way.  Otherwise, my dream all these years would have turned out to be a lie-- an empty promise.  I _have_ to forgive Remy, or I will have failed him.  And failed all of my X-Men."

Jean stared at him for several moments, and then nodded.  A flicker of a smile appeared on her lips. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.  "Thank you."

Charles returned her smile, his heart lightening.  Then he cleared his throat, suddenly abashed at the intimate moment.  "We still haven't answered the question that brought us in here."

Jean's gaze grew expectant.

"What relation does Remy have to the deaths of the X-Men?"

She shrugged.  "Apparently nothing.  Unless Sinister expects to use him against us, and I doubt he would be successful now."

"Except for the fact that there are a number of things that apparently don't exist in Gambit's memories, I would agree with you.  Whatever happened to damage his telepathic abilities had to have happened sometime, but I didn't see any evidence that his memories have been tampered with and we didn't find any gaps, save the one.  And that one is already explained."

"Do you think the memories we're looking for might have been removed?"  Jean's expression was intense.

"I would almost say that is the only answer left.  What is the saying?  'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'"

"So what can we do?"

Charles took a deep breath.  He wasn't too sure of this one, himself.  "I think there's one place left to look.  The tree."

Jean's eyes widened with recognition.  "It might work."

"Maybe.  It's the only link we have to the damage.  Do you feel up to this?"  He tried to evaluate her condition.  They were both worn out, emotionally, but he didn't think either of their mental fatigue levels was dangerous yet.  He was afraid that if they left Remy's mind now, he would never allow them to re-enter it.

Jean nodded.  "I'm ready if you are, Charles."


	17. [17]

Chapter 17

"They've been in there a long time."  Scott paced a short track between the corner of the professor's desk and his wife's chair.

"Yes, they have."  Psylocke sipped her tea.  A paper plate with a half-eaten sandwich rested on the arm of her chair.  Similar evidence of a hastily assembled dinner lay scattered around the room.

Rogue simply watched them and said nothing.  She hadn't been able to eat.  Her stomach was tied into too many knots.  She was grateful for Storm's steadying presence beside her but was not able to respond to the other woman's attempts to distract her.  The longer she was forced to wait, the worse her fears became.  She knew the kind of pain Remy carried around inside of him, even if she couldn't remember the source.  It was a dark shadow in her heart-- a part of him that would always be with her.  And having finally found a kind of peace with that, she was now terrified of having to face the truth, of having to remember.  She hadn't been able to cope with the truth last time.  Her memories of her time in Florida were fuzzy, but she knew that much.  Remy's memories had driven her to the brink of insanity and she was afraid she would be no better prepared to deal with them now.

Bobby's hands squeezed her shoulders gently.  "They're all fine, Rogue.  Right, Betsy?"  He purposely did not look at Emma, and she ignored him in return.  Rogue didn't know exactly what they had worked out, but they seemed to be maintaining a bizarre love-hate relationship based on some kind of mutual respect.  She didn't understand it in the least, but Bobby seemed content.  He was growing into his powers, and was no longer racked with uncertainty, so she was happy for him.

Psylocke quickly swallowed another bite of her sandwich.  "All of the disturbances on the astral plane have smoothed out.  I'm not sure why they haven't emerge--" She broke off abruptly as both she and Emma stiffened.  Betsy's sandwich tumbled to the floor in pieces with the plate falling on top.  Both hands went to her temples as she closed her eyes in concentration.

"What in the world?"  Emma's question was directed at no one in particular.  She, too, held fingers to her temples.  The air seemed to crackle with energy. Rogue felt her heart skip a beat.

"They've hit the damage."  Betsy opened her eyes for a moment, and Rogue thought she saw fear there.  "Psi blasts are our biggest concern now."

Emma nodded. Both women looked toward Remy.  Rogue followed their gazes.  His eyes were squeezed tightly shut.  Rogue could only stare.  She could feel the echoes of his pain through the imprint of his mind in her own.  She wanted to scream at them all, to tell them to stop hurting him, but she knew from her own experience that there were no cures for this pain.  She lived with it, too.  Terrified, she reached out to take one of Remy's hands in her own, hoping it would be some small comfort.

#

It was like sinking through molasses, Jean thought.  They had found the tree and armored themselves against the psychic backlash Charles had experienced when he had touched the bark before.  Now they were sinking into the thick trunk, headed toward the roots in the hopes that this symbolism would take them to the root of the damage to Gambit's mind.  She could feel the blackness sucking at her, trying to drown her in its agony, but its power was muted by their shields.  _A little preparation makes a big difference,_ she told herself and was immediately horrified to realize she was quoting one of her mother's favorites.

"Does it feel like we're being drawn towards something?" Charles asked her.  His voice sounded strange-- as if he were speaking to her from the inside of a metal shell.  Jean tried to gauge their progress.

"Yes," she finally agreed, "it does."  Her own voice sounded tinny as well.  "I hope we aren't causing Gambit any problems by doing this," she added after a moment.  She had some serious reservations about how much they could interfere with this tree without harming the mind around them.

Charles nodded.  "So far, we are causing only pain, I believe.  We can withdraw the moment it appears we are doing him any harm beyond that."

The darkness began to gray around them.  They were arriving somewhere.  Dark shadows began to take form on all sides, building a scene they couldn't quite see.  Then, as the light increased, the images became clearer.  Finally, they found themselves standing in the middle of a kitchen.

"We're at the mansion."  Jean couldn't hide her surprise.  She turned in a circle, taking in the scene.  It was definitely the kitchen she'd been using for the past fifteen years.  Everything was familiar, from the stocky white appliances to the checkerboard tiled counters to the-- well, the wallpaper was different.  But it was the people who populated the kitchen that were the biggest surprise.  "That's me."

Charles' expression of surprise, she was sure, mirrored her own.  He was studying the scene before them with unusual intensity.  Jean couldn't blame him.  The Jean of the mind image was pouring coffee into the filter cup of the coffee machine.  She was dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, and had her hair roughly pulled back into a ponytail.  Jean could think of a hundred mornings when she had done exactly the same thing.  Beside her stood Lilandra, Empress Shi'ar and Charles' love.  The black feathered crest that served her species in place of hair quivered as she vigorously stirred the contents of a large bowl.  She was wrapped in what Jean would have to call a rather dowdy robe, though it looked soft enough to be worth the fashion sacrifice.  The two women were chatting conversationally, though Jean found the thought of Lilandra making breakfast somewhat odd.  The third person in the room was a child.  A boy of four or five, complete with blue pajamas and unruly red hair.  He perched on one of the tall bar stools that backed one leg of the counter, eating cereal.

"This doesn't make any sense..." Charles' words were faint.  His thoughts seemed to be spinning as fast as her own.

"It seems like pieces of a lot of things, all thrown together," she agreed.  "Actually, that's not so unusual.  It's just strange now because Remy's mind has been so organized up to this point."

"Indeed."  Charles tried to put his hand on the boy's shoulder, but it passed through.  They exchanged glances.  "It's not a construct.  It must be memory of some sort since we don't exist here."

"Are you sure?"

A brief smile lit Charles' features.  "Not at all.  That is simply my current hypothesis.  In truth, it is Lilandra's presence that makes me most curious.  Remy seems to have an inordinately strong attachment to all things Shi'ar, though he has only been to Shi'ar space the one time."

As they spoke, the door to the kitchen opened and Rogue walked in.  She, too, was robed.  It was obviously early morning at the mansion.  At a second glance, Jean realized Rogue didn't look very good.  She was pale and walked carefully, as if she might be injured or sick.  She went to the sink and filled a glass with water from the spigot.  She took a drink, swishing it around in her mouth and then spit it out with a grimace.

The mind-Jean smiled sympathetically at her.  "One of those mornings?" she inquired.  She did not seem the least bit worried.

"Every mornin's one a those mornin's, sugar," Rogue answered without looking up.

"Well, it'll get better.  I was only sick for three months, both times."  Jean pulled out the freshly brewed coffee.  "Would you like some coffee?  It's decaf."

Rogue's expression of disgust was almost comical.  "Ugh.  No."  She went to the refrigerator. Jean turned to Lilandra.

"Lil?"

"Please," the Shi'ar woman answered.  Jean got out two mugs and poured the coffee.  Rogue returned to the counter with a pitcher of dark red liquid.

"What's that?" Jean asked.

Rogue sniffed the contents cautiously.  "Cranberry juice, ah think."   She set the pitcher down and sank gratefully into one of the chairs at the little dinette table.

Jean grinned.  "Poor thing.  You look so miserable."

Lilandra paused in her breakfast preparations and turned to Rogue.  "Be grateful it's not worse.  I was restricted to my bed for the entire time.  I couldn't have stood up if my life depended on it, most days."

Rogue managed to smile.  "Ya body was tryin' ta cope with a baby that was only half ya own species.  At least ah don't have _that_ problem."

Jean and Charles shared a startled look.  Rogue pregnant?  

Charles shrugged.  "So much for my hypothesis.  This has to be some kind of fantasy construct."

Jean agreed, and was beginning to find it all decidedly weird.

"I'm done," the boy Remy piped up, dropping his spoon into his bowl with a splash.  The bowl was still well over half-full.  "Where's Rachel?"

Lilandra glanced at him.  "You are _not_ done.  Eat your breakfast."

"_Amma--_"  It was a familiar plaintive wail.  Charles started. Jean glanced at him curiously, but his gaze was fixed on the scene.

"Eat."  Lilandra's voice had grown stern.  "You may not go play with Rachel until you've finished your cereal."

The other Jean was hiding her amusement behind her hand, and Jean wondered who Rachel might be.  The thought that sprung immediately to mind was disturbing.

"Are you all right, Charles?"  She was further disturbed to find that he had turned pale.

He seemed to shake himself out of whatever thrall had held him.  "I don't know," he admitted.  "'Amma' in Shi'ar means 'mother' or, more precisely, 'mommy'."

Jean sucked in her breath.  "This can't be real... can it?  Lilandra doesn't have any children?"

"No, she doesn't."

"Why would Remy fix on Lilandra as a mother figure?"

Charles sighed.  "I have no idea."

The scene continued before them, heedless of their conversation.

"Rachel is with her daddy," Jean told the boy.  "They were going to try to finish up that box kite they've been working on.  I'm sure they'd love to have your help once you're finished."

Reluctantly, Remy picked up his spoon and went back to eating.  Rogue rose, and returned the pitcher of juice to the refrigerator.  She had drunk about a half glass, and seemed to be feeling better.  She crossed to where Lilandra was chopping potatoes.

"Can ah help?"

"Of course.  Thank you."  Lilandra moved over, making room for the other woman.  Rogue took one of the chopping blocks and the knife Lilandra offered her.  She flipped it experimentally and ended up catching it by the blade.  "Oops."  There was no sign of blood on her bare palm.

Rogue sighed.  "Ah don't know why ah thought it'd be fun ta learn how ta throw these things.  Ah just don't seem ta have the talent for it."

"Not unless you want to borrow it from your husband."  Jean was setting several pans of oil on the stove.

Rogue was smiling.  "Not on ya life, gal.  'To love, honor and nevah steal powers from'.  It was in the weddin' vows."  Her expression grew serious.  "But speakin' a Remy, have either of y'all seen him this mornin'?"

"Hey, I'm right here!" the boy protested.  

Rogue reached across the counter and tousled his hair.  "Not you, sugar.  Mah Remy."

"Oh."  The boy looked disappointed for a moment.

"Eat, Rem'aillon," Lilandra reminded him.  After a moment, she turned to the two women.  "Did... Charles say something after our last visit?"  She sounded uncertain, as if she might be asking an offensive question.

"About what?" Jean asked.

"About... the jokes."  Lilandra was acutely uncomfortable.  "If Charles is really his father--" She gestured toward the boy.

Charles let out a small choking sound and Jean glanced at him curiously.  He was going a little red in the face.

"I would _never_ have believed that Remy sees me as a fatherly figure," he said by way of explanation.  Jean tried to hide her smile at his expression.

"Oh, that."  Rogue was grinning.  "Actually, it was Remy that threw a fit.  Ah mean, the Professuh wasn't too happy either, but he wasn't the one who blew out most o' the windows in the east wing."

Jean had begun chuckling.  "It was quite a sight, Lil.  You really should have seen it.  I don't think I can remember ever seeing Gambit that mad."

"Well, he felt like his honor'd been insulted."  There was just a hint of defensiveness in Rogue's voice.

Jean held up a hand.  "And I don't blame him.  I'd have been mad too if people were-- even jokingly-- implying that I'd cheated on my wife.  But between the coincidence of their names and how much they look alike, I can't say I was surprised."

Rogue sighed and studied the little boy who was busy scraping the last few spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, oblivious to his part in the conversation.  "Strange, ain't it?"

"What?"  Lilandra looked at the boy.

"Ah keep looking at him and thinkin' that's probably what this one's gonna look like."  She patted her still flat stomach.

The humor had returned to Jean's eyes.  "Or more likely, he won't look like Gambit at all and we'll have to go through this all over again."

Rogue laughed.  "Ah sure hope not."  She paused a moment, and then continued in a far more serious tone, "Y'all nevah answered mah question, though.  Has anybody seen Remy this mornin'?"

The two women shook their heads.  "Sorry."

"Is anything wrong?" Jean asked.

Rogue sighed.  "Not that ah know of.  But he left yesterday mornin' an' ah haven't seen him since."

Jean shrugged.  "That's hardly unusual."

"No, but he usually tells me."

Jean watched the other woman for a moment.  "If you're really worried, we can use Cerebro..."

Rogue shook her head.  "Nah.  He'll show up.  Ah married the wanderin' habits along with the man."

Jean crossed her arms.  "I think I should be grateful my husband tends to stay at home."

Rogue had begun to smile.  "Yup.  Besides, it's Lilandra here who's the really bad one."  She waved at Lilandra, who looked up in surprise.  "She only comes ta visit once a year or so."

Lilandra's chin rose fractionally.  "I have duties to--"

"'Course ya do, gal."  Rogue cut her off with a friendly wave.  "But if ah was the Professuh, ah think ah'd go crazy."

Lilandra looked like she might still protest, but suddenly her eyes went wide with shock.  Rogue gasped, unable to utter another sound as a beam of pure energy lanced through her torso.  She threw her head back in agony as the flesh around the beam caught fire.  A bright flash of flame took much of her long hair. She sagged against the counter, supporting herself on her elbows as the beam abruptly cut out.  She was too stunned to realize she was dead.

Lilandra's scream shattered the stunned silence.  She threw the knife she held at the black-clad figure who stood in the doorway.  Jean recognized him as the mercenary Gambit had claimed to see.  She felt cold inside despite the adrenaline pumping through her.

The knife struck the man's weapon squarely at the power pack, throwing white sparks.  He yelped and dropped it as the sparks burned him.  Then he rushed at Lilandra, drawing a tazer from a hip holster as he did.  Lilandra met him partway, her own combat training allowing her to block his arm before he could use the weapon.

"Cerebro!  Alarms!  Alarms!"  Jean was yelling at the air, but there were no responding claxons.  The mercenary backhanded her with the hand that held the tazer. She staggered backwards, slamming into the counter near the sink with a grunt of pain.  But the live tips of the tazer hadn't touched her.

Lilandra landed a hard blow, despite the armored vest he wore, and the man returned his attention to her.  As they grappled in the small space, he reached down to draw the handgun that was holstered at his thigh.  Rogue grasped at his arm, her breath bubbling weakly through blood covered lips.  She tried to keep him from raising the weapon, but only succeeded in tearing the shoulder fabric of his uniform.  He fired as her collapsing weight dragged his arm down, but his aim remained true.  The side of Lilandra's head exploded, splattering dark blood across the white cabinets.  She collapsed at his feet.  Rogue, too, fell, and as the man was trying to disentangle himself, he took his attention off of Jean.  Staggering, she grabbed one of the pans on the stove and hit him with it.  There was no finesse to the maneuver, only desperation and fury.  The hot oil splashed over him and he screamed shrilly.  Jean didn't pause.  She used the pan like a club until the man lay on the ground, unmoving.

When she looked up, it was straight into the eyes of the little boy who still sat at the counter, frozen in shock.  The pan slid from her fingers to clang discordantly on the floor.  She held out her hand to him.

"Come on, Remy.  We have to go."  Her voice was dull with her own shock.  "We have to find Scott and the Professor."  As she spoke, she gathered herself and her voice became steadier.  Responding to the command, the boy climbed onto the counter.  Jean lifted him over the bodies that littered the floor and carried him to the doorway.

Jean and Charles could only stare at the carnage in horror.

"This... this is... real."  Charles' face was deathly pale as he stared at the destruction of his dream.  "It just hasn't happened yet."

"The future?"  Jean didn't want to believe it, but she had to.  Nothing else made more sense.  The implications spun through her mind.  "But how?"

"Remy was there.  He saw it.  That's why he thought it was his fault."  Charles did not seem to have heard Jean at all.  When he turned to her, his eyes were wide, full of unguarded emotion.  "He's my son."


	18. [18]

Chapter 18

Emma Frost slid from her chair with a cry of pain.  She landed on her knees, eyes wide. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples as if she could somehow physically push the pain away.  Betsy saw her fall and tried to bolster her shields, but she couldn't tell how much effect she was having.  Emma bore the brunt of the assault, being the link between the professor and Jean, and themselves.  

Betsy dug deeper within herself for the power she needed.  They were being pummeled by raw emotion from Gambit.  Fueled by his telepathy, the waves of pain and loss were being driven toward the minds around them like missiles.  Only the shields she and Emma held steady prevented them from getting through.  In a distant corner of her mind, Betsy thought that this was probably a lot more than the professor had expected.  Otherwise, he would simply have ordered everyone to leave.

Emma, she knew through their link, was also receiving waves of distress from the professor and Jean themselves.  But they didn't seem to be threatened, only hurting, and they did not yield to Emma's efforts to recall them to their bodies.

Sudden blackness erupted on the astral plane. Betsy screamed.  She knew she screamed, even though she didn't hear her own voice.  It was the same darkness that had nearly drowned her when she had probed Gambit's mind-- that suffocating, swirling pit of loss and despair.  It swirled around her, trying to draw her through the protection of her shields.  Those shields seemed awfully fragile now, and her fear made them quiver.

A sharp stab of physical pain distracted her.  She opened her eyes to find Logan's face only a few inches away.  Her cheek stung, but she could only cling to the solid calm of his blue eyes.

"Don't ya dare fold, darlin'," he told her in his gravelly voice.  "We need you."  The words held her in a firm grasp and wouldn't let her go.  She looked beyond him to where Emma knelt.  Her face was tear-streaked but calm, as if she had already decided that nothing was going to break her composure, let alone her shields.  The unexpected show of courage gave Elizabeth even more determination.  She sat up and shook off Logan's grasp.

"Thanks, Logan," she managed.  "I've got it."

"I'm glad to hear it, love."  Warren's voice was quiet, but disturbed.  Betsy felt the familiar rustle as one wing settled around her.  One hand rested on her shoulder as the other one pointed toward the corner of the room, behind Gambit.  "I think we're going to need everything you've got."

The bookshelf behind Gambit had dissolved into a black inferno that raged in a tight circle the size of a dinner plate.  Betsy knew that darkness, though she couldn't say how it could manifest physically as well as on the astral plane.  As she watched in horror, the circle slowly expanded.

#

Charles and Jean followed the mind-Jean and Remy through the mansion's lower floor.  They knew where she was headed-- the weapons locker near the lifts.  A brief explosion rattled the building, momentarily drowning out the sound of gunfire from elsewhere in the house.  Jean was talking to herself as she dragged the unprotesting boy along, as if that were the only way she could force her mind to function.  Still, she held to her training-- checking the corners and taking a roundabout route that was less likely to be occupied.

"Cerebro's down... powers suppressed... " She flattened herself and her charge against the wall at the last corner and then peeked around.  Apparently seeing nothing, they bolted across the foyer that fronted the lifts.  The weapons locker was on the far side, a solid gray square mounted on the wall.

"Gunfire in at least... " She pulled up the heavy bracket that sealed the locker with a grunt.  "Three... places."  The energy rifles and smaller hand weapons were neatly stored in their places.  A rack below them held powerpacks and a small string of grenades.

"Professor's study... first.  Upstairs..."  She grabbed one of the rifles and a powerpack, slapping the one into the other with the familiarity of long practice.  "Maybe Storm's loft... Can't tell... " She took the grenades, too, looping the string over her shoulder.  "Explosion... downstairs.  Probably the other lifts..."

She grabbed Remy's hand again and turned to him.  She took a deep breath before she spoke, as if she knew she needed to concentrate in order to be understandable.  "Remy, stay right with me, o.k.?  I'm going to need both hands sometimes, so you have to stay with me."  The little boy nodded solemnly.

"Good."  Jean seemed to be drawing herself together more with each passing moment.  "And if anyone starts shooting, you just get down on the floor, o.k.?"  Again, a nod.

They started toward the back of the house and Charles' study.

"If they're blowing the lifts, they'll be coming this way," Jean remarked to Charles.  She was amazed at how calm she sounded.  It was as if her mind had become detached.  It was that other Jean who was creeping through the house, rifle held ready-- who faced possible death around each corner.  Jean herself felt an odd freedom to analyze and plan, as if she were involved in a playback session of one of their danger room sequences.

Charles didn't answer.  His eyes were haunted. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, but couldn't turn away from the scene that flowed around them.  Jean understood.  The horror of it all held her as well, despite the feeling of detachment.  She was aware that she would, in all probability, see her own death... but so far that was only a mental awareness.  She felt numbed.

The mind-Jean peered around a corner and jerked her head back.  Standing further out into the hall, Jean and Charles could see the three men who walked purposefully down the hall.  They were in a loose flanking formation and looked ready for trouble.  Jean didn't think they had seen her doppelganger at the corner.

The mind-Jean motioned for Remy to stay where he was, then dove out into the hallway, firing rapidly as she crossed the empty space. She flattened herself against the far wall, opposite where she had started.  Jean and Charles saw one of the black clad men fall, his shoulder and arm burned away.  The mind-Jean pulled a grenade from the string, automatically arming it, and tossed it out into the hallway through the return fire.  Remy squatted down and covered his ears when she did, flinching as the grenade went off and sent a wall of flames roaring past his hiding place.  The sound of the explosion drowned out the screams.  Jean repeated her dash across the mouth of the hallway, firing again, to be sure that she had hit all of the intruders.  

When the smoke cleared enough to see, she led Remy into the hall.  They picked their way across the bodies and continued on.

Charles turned to Jean as they followed.  "What kind of life do we lead, that my five year old son is trained to respond to this kind of violence?"

Jean wasn't sure how to answer.  She thought for a moment. "How many times has this house been leveled by our enemies?" she finally replied.  "I would hope we've taught our children to protect themselves.  Trouble always comes looking for the X-Men."

Charles' gaze was distant.  "Perhaps we have no business having children, then," he murmured, so softly Jean wasn't certain she heard him properly.  Since she didn't know what to say, she didn't ask.

Jean and Remy reached the Professor's study.  The door was open, and they could hear voices inside.  Jean paused at the doorway to listen.  Her back was pressed against the opened door, and her head turned toward the opening.  Jean and Charles saw the man who approached from behind her, but could give no warning.  The mind-Jean was too engrossed in her listening to notice his silent approach.  Remy, too, was facing the wrong direction.  He turned at the last moment, eyes widening as he registered the soldier who was nearly on them.  His cry of warning came too late.  The soldier brought the butt of his rifle down on Jean's skull with a dull thud.  Jean collapsed with a cry, the gun tumbling from her hands.

The man grabbed Remy by the hair when he tried to scramble away.  "Oh, no you don't," he said, and hoisted the boy into the crook of one arm, holding him around the stomach with arms and legs dangling.  He kicked Jean's rifle into the study and then took her by the back of her sweatshirt, forcing the reeling woman forward in a half-walk, half-crawl.  He pushed her down onto her face in front of a tall, pale man dressed all in black.  The struggling boy he kept pinned in his arms.  

Jean climbed slowly to her hands and knees.  She looked around her from that vantage, and did not make a sound as she surveyed the ruin.  The real Jean gasped for her and clapped a hand to her mouth.  Charles, too, looked stunned.

The mind-Charles sat in his now-grounded hoverchair.  He was dressed in the green and blue silk robe Jean and Scott had given him last Christmas.  His head was bowed forward, and Jean could see that a fair portion of that head was missing.  The right side of his robe was stained black with blood.  In front of the hoverchair, Scott Summers lay on his stomach, obviously dead as well.  Jean felt tears burn her eyes.  She had always thought she was prepared for the possibility of losing Scott.  She'd thought about it, planned for it, if it ever happened.  But to suddenly be staring at her husband's lifeless body sent such a wrenching pain through her she felt like her knees were going to buckle.  

Still, the sight that most horrified Jean was the empty eyes of the little girl whose body was half-buried under Scott's.  Jean knew her daughter's face-- red hair, green eyes.  An eight or nine year old angel whose life Jean had never seen.  Only her death.  And to her surprise, the mind around her echoed the feelings of loss.  Rachel had been his friend.

The men in the room ignored the bodies as they considered Jean and Remy.  The boy had stopped struggling. Jean had pulled herself to her knees so that she could face her captors.  The muzzle of the soldier's energy rifle rested against her cheek.  Her eyes were flat, but the fire of defiance continued to burn.  She met the gaze of the pale man without flinching and without showing an ounce of reaction to the deaths of her husband and daughter.  Jean was chilled to see herself that way, but also somehow proud that she had not been broken.

As the impact of the scene began to wear off, Jean began to notice more.  Primarily, she recognized the man who stood beside the tall, pale man who seemed to be the leader of the mercenaries.  His name was Sebastian Shaw.

"Shaw."  She made no effort to disguise the fury that burned through her.

"He has been trying to kill the X-Men for years," said Charles.  He, too, was coldly angry.  "It appears he finally succeeded."

Another soldier entered the room.  He held something that resembled a rocket launcher casually balanced on his shoulder.  Jean could tell it was an energy weapon of some sort, but the mouth of the barrel was so wide she couldn't imaging what kind of beam it put out.

"Did you get him?" the pale man asked.

The soldier nodded smugly.  "Yep."  He patted the weapon.  "That metal skeleton melted right down."

"Casualties?"

The soldier's expression turned solemn.  "Yeah.  He went straight through Stanton and his boys like they was so much meat.  It took me that long to get the lock on him."

"I warned you Logan would not fall easily."  All eyes turned toward the new voice that spoke from the doorway.  On her knees, Jean's body sagged in defeat.  Her eyes emptied at this last shock.

"Peter," she whispered.  "Why?"  She sounded like a small child.

The tall, metal-skinned man turned towards her.  His smile was bittersweet. Jean could see the madness that burned behind his eyes.  "Because the lies had to be stopped," he told her.

The mind-Jean shook her head, though her eyes never left his face.  "I... don't understand."

"The lies, Jean!  His lies!"  Peter Rasputin gestured angrily towards the now-dead Professor.

When she didn't respond, he continued, "Don't you see?  He told us that we would make the world better.  That people wouldn't hate us anymore.  That we could be happy!"  Colossus slammed his fist into the corner of the desk, shattering it.  Jean flinched as the wooden shards exploded around her.  The desk canted forward from the loss of a leg, its contents spilling onto the floor at Jean's knees.  She stared hollowly at the pile of tumbled papers.

"It wasn't his fault," she said without looking up.

The real Jean took Charles' arm.  He was staring at the scene with a glimmer of tears shining in his eyes.  Jean had never seem him look so... bereft.  Peter had been one of his first students and despite all of the horrible things that had happened to him, Charles had never given up hope that he would be strong enough to survive the pain and go forward from there.  Jean, herself, had always believed that.  Even when he left to join Magneto, she had believed he would come back, eventually.  She would never have believed he was capable of this.

Colossus crossed his massive arms and glared at Jean.  "Your loyalty makes you blind, little one.  What did his "dream" ever bring us, except pain?  He was a viper who mesmerized us with promises, and then struck with fangs and poison when we thought we were safe!"

Jean's brow crinkled slightly.  It was obvious she didn't really understand what he was saying.  Neither did the two who stood silent witness to the scene.

"Did you come home just to kill us, Peter?" she finally asked.  Charles cringed at the question, as if it had struck him physically.

The metal mutant's roar of fury startled everyone in the room.  He grabbed the heavy oak desk and hurled it at the wall behind the professor, narrowly missing the bowed head.  The desk crashed through the outside wall, shattering the nearby window.  Pieces of glass and fragments of paneling rained down onto the carpet.

"It's not my fault!" Colossus screamed at Jean.  "His lies destroyed my brother!  They drove him mad!"  He kicked the hoverchair, toppling it.  "He killed my parents and my poor, sweet Illyana... "  The rage abruptly gave way to overwhelming sorrow at the mention of Illyana's name.  Peter covered his face with one hand.  After a moment, though, he raised his head and looked at Jean again.  When he spoke, his voice was ragged with both fury and tears.  "And now my wife does not even speak to me because of his "dream"!  She will not even allow me to see my children!  My children!"

"He's mad," the real Jean said softly. 

Beside her, Charles nodded through his tears.  "Yes."

The mind-Jean endured the tirade in silence.  Her face had grown hard.  When he finished speaking, she met his gaze squarely.  "But it is _you_, Peter, and not the Professor who has taken my husband and daughter from me."

"Noooo!"  It was almost a howl.  Colossus turned and buried his fists in the wall near Shaw and the mercenary.  The two men backed up warily.

For a moment, all eyes were off of Jean.  Without warning, she grabbed the gun still aimed at her from behind.  But instead of trying to take it away from the soldier who guarded her, she simply deflected its aim over her shoulder and squeezed the man's hand on the trigger.  The energy beam sizzled past her ear and burned into the wall between the mercenary leader and Shaw.  In the single moment of surprise that brought her, she surged to her feet, out of the grasp of her captor who also had to deal with renewed struggles from the little boy he held.  Jean took two steps and dove across Charles' overturned hoverchair.  Energy beams lanced through the air around her as the mercenary leader and the one who had hit her fired their weapons.  The chair made a small but solid shield as she fumbled with the books on one of the lower shelves.  Finally, she hit the emergency release on Charles' trapdoor.  A portion of the bookshelves swung inward. Jean tumbled through the opening into the blackness beyond.  The panel swung shut automatically, many of the books already burning from the laser fire.         

Colossus jumped across the room and began tearing at the shelves.  His efforts revealed the adamantium panels and supports that anchored that one corner of the room, but even his strength was not enough to rip through the heavy structure.  All he succeeded in doing was denting the armored walls.  Eventually, his rage wore out and he leaned against the metal wall, breathing heavily.

Silence descended on the room, save for the struggling boy.

"Put him down."  The mercenary leader indicated Remy.  The soldier complied and the mercenary leader trained his gun on the young boy.  "Now don't move," he told Remy, who sank to the floor obediently, eyes wide.

"What are you going to do about Phoenix?"  Shaw demanded.

The mercenary leader ignored him.  "Find her," he ordered the two soldiers, "and kill her."  They nodded, exchanged glances, and left.  Then the mercenary turned to Shaw.  "Is that good enough, Mr. Shaw?"  There was an undercurrent of contempt in his voice.

"What about him?"  Shaw gestured toward Remy.

The mercenary's cold gaze didn't change.  "You aren't paying me and my boys to kill children.  That's the Russian's job."  Now the disgust in his voice was unmistakable.

"Peter--" Shaw held up a hand to forestall Colossus.

Minutes stretched in silence.  Then the radio on the mercenary's belt crackled.  Without taking his attention from Remy, he picked it up.  "Snow."

"It's a clean sweep, sir," the voice on the other end said.  "We got 'em all, except the woman they're chasing downstairs.  And one of 'em wasn't home."

"Which one?"

"The thief.  Gambit."

The mercenary glanced at Shaw for his reaction.  Shaw shrugged.  "He's not important.  I got the ones I wanted."

The radio crackled again and a different voice said, "Colonel, we've got Phoenix cornered."

"Is there a problem?"

The voice paused.  Then, "She's barricaded herself in the control room downstairs.  The one that runs the hologram setup.  We haven't been able to burn through-- she's got a force field up."

"Go through the danger room," Colossus said from the far side of the room.  He seemed completely rational now.  The Colonel repeated the suggestion into the radio.

"Uh, we tried that, sir.  It's suicide, unless someone can shut down the room.  She's got robots the size of buildings ready to attack as soon as the door opens."

The mercenary considered then turned to Colossus.  "Mr. Rasputin, would you care to give my men a hand?"

Colossus nodded brusquely and strode from the room.  The Colonel spoke into the radio for a while, giving instructions for various people to join in the effort to get to Jean.  Sebastian Shaw paced back and forth beside him, hands clasped behind his back.

Charles and Jean simply waited.  They didn't know what else to do.  Because this was Remy's memories, they were constrained by what he had seen and experienced.  As much as they might have wanted to, they couldn't leave the wrecked office to watch events in other parts of the house.

Eventually, the stillness was broken once again by a voice from the radio.

"Did you get her?" the Colonel asked.

"Roger that, Colonel," the voice replied.  "She was trying to transmit a distress call when we broke through.  We're checking now to see if it could have gotten out."

"Right.  Let me know, asap.  We're going to have to clear out of here fast if any of their mutant friends got that message.  Where's the Russian?"

"Don't know, Colonel.  He said something about there being one more, and left.  He might be on his way back to you."  The soldier's voice was cautious, as if he were trying to convey a warning without saying anything overt.

"All right.  Let me know about that transmission."  Then he switched frequencies.  "Halley?"

"Here, sir," came the tinny answer.

"Go ahead and shut down the suppression field and get the gear packed up.  We're done here."

"Yes, sir."

The Colonel replaced the radio at his belt.

Charles turned to Jean.  "They must have set up field generators around the house.  I wonder if we can see one."  He crossed the room to the shattered window and peered outside.  Jean wondered if he was truly curious, or if he simply wanted something to distract himself with.  She knew how desperately _she_ wanted to be away from there.

"There's a machine of some sort over there," he said after a moment, pointing, "but it's indistinct.  Remy must have only caught a glance of it.  It does look like it has an array."  He returned to Jean.

"Peter must have shut down Cerebro during the night some time."  Jean stared out the window, trying not to see the bodies.  "It had to take them a while to set that kind of equipment up.  Why wasn't anyone out on the grounds?  Bishop is _always_--"

"Bishop isn't in this time line," Charles reminded her.

At that moment, Colossus walked back into the office.  He was carrying a doll in one massive hand.  No, not a doll, Jean realized with sinking horror.  A baby, less than six months old.  It hung limp in his grasp.

He dropped it next to Cyclops' head.  

"Brian?"  The question was a mere squeak from the boy who still sat on the floor.

Jean felt the tears she had been holding back burst forth.  She could only guess that the baby was her own, but in her heart she was certain.  "Charles, take us away from here!" she sobbed.  "I can't watch any more!"  She tried to pull away from him, to reach for the solace of her own body, her own mind, but he gripped her elbow and did not let go.

"We have to finish this, Jean."  His voice was steady, though she could tell his horror was no less than her own.  "For Remy's sake-- perhaps, even for Peter's.  We have to finish this, if only to find out anything-- _anything_ that might help prevent this day from happening."

The Colonel was staring at Colossus, slightly pale.  Even he was shaken.  He seemed to be considering his choices as Peter turned towards Remy.

"This is the last," Peter said as he advanced.  "The Professor's own son.  He can't be allowed to continue his father's lies."

The Colonel's gun wavered as if he might change targets.  Remy cringed from the massive man that loomed over him.  Colossus reached down and picked the boy up by the throat and began to squeeze.  Jean and Charles felt the sudden snap vibrate through the mind around them.  Jean's first thought was that Colossus had broken Remy's neck, though that made no sense.  Then she realized that what she heard was the breaking of something in the boy's mind, relived by the mind that surrounded them.

They were suddenly engulfed in a swell of telepathic power, forced into activity long before it would normally have surfaced, as Remy fought for his life.  Panicked by the grip that closed off his windpipe and sunk in fear and horror, Remy struck out at Colossus with the one weapon his body provided him.  The psi blast was as powerful as the one Jean had deflected from Psylocke, but there was no one to shield Colossus.  The telepathic force ripped through his mind like tissue.  He staggered and screamed, dropping Remy to the ground and clasping his hands over his temples.  Remy's posture mimicked his as his untrained mind became entangled with Peter's, and as his psi power drove into the part of Colossus' brain that maintained his heart and life functions, it dragged the terrified boy with it into darkness.

Jean stifled a startled cry as the black vortex erupted around them.  Instinctively, she and Charles erected shields to protect themselves, but it was like being inside a bubble in the middle of a raging storm.  Jean understood now how Remy's mind could have been so badly damaged.  As his psi blast destroyed the part of Peter's mind that kept his body functioning, he became locked into that death experience.  And what Remy had lived through then, they were being forced to re-experience with him.  Jean felt the stabbing pains in her head and felt her lungs freeze.  Panic closed in as her lungs refused to work, to draw in the air she so desperately needed.  Physical cold crept in, precursor to death.  And through it all, undirected telepathic power flayed her mind, tearing it open and laying it out, strip by strip.  Except that it was really Peter's mind she felt being destroyed.  The memories she saw were his, not her own, and she felt like she was drowning as he looked on his life for the last time.  She felt his guilt and his madness, driven by the loss of everything and everyone that he loved.  She felt his pain, and, eventually, she felt his death-- his overwhelming horror as the last guttural spark of the man who had been Peter Rasputin was extinguished.

Jean was barely aware of the black vortex that swirled in the ruins of the Professor's study.  She saw it, but the importance of what she was seeing didn't strike her until it surged forward to swallow the little boy who lay curled fetally on the floor.  For just a moment, Jean thought she saw something in the depths of the maelstrom-- a hint of yellow lamplight on cobblestones.  Then she and Charles were caught up in the black storm and whirled away into madness.  Jean couldn't keep any bearings. The sense of being tossed around inside the vortex was making her nauseous.  She clung to Charles as her only lifeline, and felt his grip in return.

Just as she was about to begin screaming, the vortex abruptly disappeared, leaving them reeling on a dark street.  The boy Remy was slowly picking himself up off of the cobblestones.  He looked around, his expression both curious and frightened.  Jean could tell, even without feeling it from the mind around her, that he remembered nothing before that moment.

Words were unnecessary as Charles reached for the real world.  They had seen everything.  Jean held on to him, desperate to feel her own mind around her again.  She felt battered and bruised, and wanted nothing more than to curl up around her wounds.  She wanted to see Scott, and feel the secure grip of his arms around her.  Together, she and Charles fled to the sanctuary their own bodies.

#

Jean opened her eyes to chaos.  She could already feel Charles acting to bolster the shields of the two women who stood against the raging vortex that occupied the far corner of Charles' office.  Papers whipped through the air around them, making it difficult to focus.  Jean could see Gambit curled on the floor in front of the vortex.  From the outside, she could easily feel the connection between him and the furious black storm fueled by his pain.  Everyone had backed away from the vortex with the exception of Rogue, who knelt by Gambit's side and stared into the darkness.  It looked to Jean like she had begun to move him, only to discover that the vortex advanced when she did so.  Elizabeth and Emma Frost both looked unconscious, though Jean knew they weren't.  They were each supported between two X-Men who had withdrawn them to the far side of the room.  Charles' hoverchair had been moved away from the vortex by Storm who now laid a hand on his shoulder.  Charles didn't acknowledge her.  Wolverine stood in front of Charles' chair, claws unsheathed, as if his presence could protect the Professor.  Jean herself was wrapped in her husband's arms.  Their psychic link settled comfortably in her mind and she drew heavily on it for reassurance.

_Jean?_ His mental voice was worried.

For a moment, all she could do was cling to him.  Then, _I'm all right, Scott,_ she told him.

"What _is_ that thing, Professor?" Warren demanded.  His metallic wings were open, shielding Betsy and Bishop, who held her from the other side.

Charles didn't answer.  Jean didn't much feel like trying to explain, either.  But she did know what she needed to do, before that vortex repeated its function and swallowed Remy up again.  She forced herself away from Scott and went to kneel beside Rogue.

"Help me, Rogue."  She pulled Remy into a sitting position with the other woman's help.  Then she grabbed his collar and shook him.

"Remy, open your eyes!  It's Jean.  You have to open your eyes.  I need your help, Remy!"  The limp form didn't respond.

To her surprise, Rogue reached over and slapped the Cajun sharply.  His eyes flew open.  Jean caught his face in her hands, forcing their eyes to meet before she could lose him.  The howl of the vortex swirling mere feet from them was frighteningly loud.  She didn't dare look, but she was sure it was closing on them.

"Whatevah ya gotta do, sugar, do it fast," Rogue said in an undertone.   

"Remy, look at me!"  She couldn't tell who, if anyone, was behind the red eyes.  She was afraid to reach out with her mind, for fear of what she might spark.  He would have to break free on his own.

"Jean?"  The voice was weak, but Jean felt a flood of relief.  

"I'm right here," she reassured him.

"They're all dead."  His expression was completely unguarded, with the loss of a child's entire world written there.

"No, they're not."  Jean gave him another little shake.  This was what they had to break him out of.  As long as he was locked into the past, the vortex would continue to grow until it consumed him as it had before.  Jean didn't bother to wonder where or when this vortex emptied into.  Perhaps it would be New Orleans, the same place and time as it had before.  Perhaps it would be somewhere and somewhen else.  Either way, Remy would be lost to them.

"Look, Rogue is right here."  She pulled Rogue closer.  Remy looked at her dully.  Jean held her breath.  Rogue was her best bet for awakening the man from the child.

After a moment he gasped and straightened.  He caught Rogue's arm and pulled her closer, laying the other hand flat against her chest and then turning her to look at her back.  Rogue's eyes went wide at the somewhat rude treatment, but she bit off her protest at Jean's warning headshake.

Remy released her abruptly and turned to look around the room, his red eyes flicking to each face as if memorizing them.  Behind him, the black vortex began to shed pieces of itself, dissolving into a dark swirl that quickly collapsed on itself and disappeared.

The stillness was deafening.  No one moved for several moments.  The only motion was that of the airborne papers that fluttered to the floor like giant snowflakes.

Remy sagged against Rogue, eyes closed.  Jean wasn't certain if it was from exhaustion, or simple withdrawal.  She reached out to stroke his hair, as much to comfort herself as him.  After a moment, she looked at Rogue.

"You should take him to bed.  Sleep is probably the best thing, now."  She tried to summon a smile for Rogue.  "It will give his subconscious time to sort through... everything."  Her smile died.

"That is sound advice for yourself, too, Jean."  Charles' voice was thin.  When she turned to look at him she was stunned by how weary he looked.  She wondered if she looked that bad herself.  "And for you two as well," he added, nodding to Elizabeth and Emma.  Betsy returned his nod, and Emma only shrugged.

"Storm, will you see to Emma's needs?"

"Of course, Professor."  Storm moved to stand by the White Queen.

Jean climbed stiffly to her feet.  "Charles?" she asked uncertainly.  There was a flatness to his voice that disturbed her.

His gaze rose to hers for a bare moment, and did not allay her fears.  "I would like to be left alone... if you all don't mind."  But the politely phrased request was clearly an order.

Silently, the X-Men filed out.  Jean allowed Scott to take her home.  Despite the midday hour, she made him stay with her, holding her, until she fell asleep.


	19. [19]

Chapter 19       

The man disciplines himself to silence as the face appears before him.  As always, the projection wears no expression, but he senses both displeasure and a grudging admiration.  But then, he might simply be projecting the emotions he expects his opponent to feel, he tells himself.

Beside him, Forge shifts slightly.  "Time to see if he pays up."

The Witness nods.  "Oui."

"You're being awfully calm about this, you realize.  I'm about ready to start dancing on the tables."  Forge smiles.  "We won!"

For the barest moment, the Witness' reserve cracks and the mischievous grin of his youth shines through.  "I'd like to see y' dancin' on de table."  Then his calm mask returns.  "But, as y' said, we still waitin' t' see if he pays up."

Forge doesn't respond.  The face before them has solidified and watches them from seemingly empty eyes.

"Congratulations," it begins.  "You have answered the challenge."

The Witness remains silent.  For once, he holds the position of power in this little game.

The face pauses, as if expecting a reply, but then continues, "I will, of course, fulfill my obligation, as set down at the beginning of this contest."

The Witness nods in acknowledgement, and the face begins to dissolve.  When it is gone, he allows himself a sigh.  

Forge's expression is highly skeptical.  "That's it?"

"What were y' expectin'?"

"I have no idea, but that wasn't it."

The Witness stirs.  "You c'n complain about de lack o' fanfare later.  We need to get goin' before de timeline change gets here."  He heads toward the door.

"So where are we going?"  Forge asks, following.

The Witness glances back over his shoulder.  "To see de X-Men."

#

For once, silence reigned the X-men.  They were all gathered in the War Room, seated around the conference table.  All except for Gambit, who still slept.  Jean had finally finished speaking, and now sipped at a glass of water.  Her green eyes watched them all over the rim.  Charles was beginning to think that the War Room had been a poor choice of locations to gather everyone and explain what they had learned.  The expressions he saw on their faces were not what he might have hoped for.

Not unsurprising, perhaps, but Charles had found himself unable to talk easily about what he had so recently discovered about Remy.  So the task had fallen to Jean. She had been speaking steadily for the last two hours.  Finally, Charles forced himself to find his voice.

"I would like to simply throw the floor open at this point."  He surveyed each of the X-Men in turn.  "I want to hear your reactions and opinions to these... revelations."

There was a quiet shuffle as people shifted in their seats, but no one spoke immediately.  Gazes slowly focused on Ororo and Rogue.  Ororo watched them all in return, her expression unreadable.  Only the troubled crease between her aristocratic brows hinted at mixed emotions.  Rogue sat with her head bowed, staring at the hands clasped in her lap.  Waves of red hair obscured her face.  Charles was very concerned for her.  He had seen the expression in her eyes as Jean's words had been drowned by memory-- Remy's memories, permanently locked inside her mind.  He didn't know exactly how much she remembered, but he could tell from watching her that it was more than enough.  Her eyes had become dark hollows in a deathly pale face before she lowered them.  She had not moved a muscle since.  He wasn't entirely certain she had even heard the rest of the story.

As if his scrutiny required some kind of response, Rogue climbed to her feet, moving slowly as if she ached to her very core.  Without looking at anyone, she turned and walked to the door.  Charles caught only a glimpse of her face, but he saw no trace of tears or any other hint of emotion.  The door slid aside for her, its whispering sound seeming more muted than normal.  Then she was gone, and the door resealed itself with a sense of finality.  A few moments later, the dull report of a sonic boom announced her departure.  The small, detached part of Charles' mind wondered if she had broken the windows.  Sealed underground as they were, they wouldn't be able to hear such things.  Then he chided himself for thinking about such trivialities when much more important things were at stake.  He knew that it was just a protective reflex-- to keep him from wondering if she would ever come back.

"That was a really rotten thing for him to do to her, y'know," muttered Bobby.

"What was?" asked Logan from beside him.

"Kissing her-- letting her absorb his memories."  Bobby swung his arm in a directionless, angry gesture.  "He _knew_ it would rip her up."

"Maybe."  Jean set her glass down.  Her voice was tired.  "But we all stared at that crystal wave and thought we were going to die."  She looked at the other X-Men who had been there that day.  "I'll agree it turned out to be a mistake, but it's an understandable one."

"No way, Jean."  Bobby's jaw had taken a stubborn set.  "I don't buy that.  It shouldn't have been worth the risk no matter what was going on."

"I have to agree with Bobby."  Scott's voice was heavy and spoke very loudly to Charles of the tension between husband and wife.  Jean turned to look at her husband, the question written on her face.

Scott took a preparatory breath.  "But this is all secondary to the _real_ issue, which is Gambit's involvement with Sinister."  If possible, the stillness around the table became thicker.  No one had wanted to be the one to broach the subject that loomed in front of them all.  "I think this information supports the opinion I've expressed in the past-- that Gambit does not belong with the X-Men."  He nodded in Charles' direction.  "Despite all of the personal complications, which I do sympathize with."

"I agree with Scott," Warren interjected before Charles could speak.  His expression was unyielding.

"Why?"  Charles tried to keep his voice neutral.  He did want to hear their opinions.  Still, he knew he was highly biased, and probably in more than one direction.  He didn't really trust his own opinions at this point, which is why he had asked the X-Men for theirs.  "What are your reasons?  Scott has expressed his own to me in the past, though it might be useful for him to lay them out again."  Charles looked between the two men.

Scott took the initiative, though reluctantly.  "I've said all of this before, but I just don't think Gambit is the right kind of person to be an X-Man."

"An' what kind a person is _that_, exactly?"  Logan's growl was less than happy.

Scott sighed.  "When you get right down to it, Logan, Remy is the kind of person who always puts his own interests first, even if he doesn't realize he's doing it.  Knowing what we do now, I have to say that it's not surprising he is that way.  But that still doesn't change the facts.  The X-Men is built on trust.  Trust in each other, of course, but more importantly, trust that each and every one of us is putting the dream first, so that we're all fighting for a common goal.  I'm not entirely sure what Remy's goals are, if he has any, but I can guarantee it's _not_ to make the world safer for mutants.  I'm afraid that, eventually, someone is going to get hurt because of that."

"Besides Rogue, you mean."

"Robert!"  Ororo's voice was sharp.  "That was uncalled for."  Bobby settled back into his seat with a sullen frown.

"I'm not trying to condemn Gambit, Bobby."  Scott crossed his arms.  "Though I do think some kind of punishment is appropriate for what he did."

"The X-Men's purpose is not to punish mutants for their past crimes," Charles said.  "Nor is it our right."

Scott nodded, "Of course.  That's not what I meant."

"And I can guarantee you that no physical punishment you could dream up would be worse than having to live with his guilt."  Jean's expression was hard.  "What would you have us do?  Chain him up in the basement like Sabretooth?"

Anger sparked behind the ruby glasses, and though his eyes weren't visible, the sudden tightening of Scott's jaw made his anger clear.  "Of course not!  This is entirely different and you know it, Jean."

"We just can't trust him," Warren put in before an argument erupted.  "He worked for Sinister once-- knowing that what he was doing was wrong.  Even if he regrets it now, there's no reason to believe that he might not fall into doing the same thing again.  And this time, it could easily be the people in this room who ended up dead."

"Very well, Warren," Jean said.  Her voice was so brittle with anger that Charles stared at her in surprise.  "Then I guess we'll just have to throw you off the team, too."

"What?  Why?"  Warren's wings rustled in response to his emotions.

"You worked for Apocalypse once-- knowing that what you were doing was wrong.  How can we know _you_ won't someday go back to him?"

The sudden flush of blood in Warren's face turned his skin purple.  His wings exploded from his back with a sound like the hiss of a living thing.  The tips of flechettes emerged, orienting on Jean.  She didn't move except to raise her chin a fraction.

"Warren!  That's enough!"  Scott's voice cracked authoritatively.  He had one hand on his glasses, the other held out protectively in front of his wife.  Warren's eyes widened in sudden fear.  He still did not have complete control over the wings Apocalypse had given him, but the shock of nearly shooting a teammate sobered him.  The metallic wings twitched and then furled.

"You've made your point," he said.

Jean's shoulders slumped.  "I'm sorry to be so harsh, Warren, but the point has to be made.  And it's not just you."  She looked around the table.  "As the dark Phoenix, I destroyed entire solar systems."  Her expression said that the memories still haunted her.  "And even though you can argue that it wasn't really me, that another force was controlling me-- part of it _was_ me.  Remy's crimes are a pittance next to that."  She paused and turned to Logan, her expression apologetic.  "We have no idea what crimes Wolverine may have committed in the past.  Even he doesn't know."  She turned next to Bishop, who had remained amazingly silent.  "Bishop's actions with the X.S.E, though considered justified in his time, we consider murder."  Bishop's eyes widened a fraction at the blunt statement.  Jean looked next at Ororo.  "Storm set herself up as a goddess, demanding worship and tribute. Rogue was once a dedicated member of the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants.  She tried to _kill_ X-Men on several occasions.  But we took her in, anyway.  And how many of you believe she might go back to her old ways?"  

Silence answered the question.  Jean went on, turning this time to Charles.  "And you Charles, you have used your powers to tear a man's mind out."  She held up her hand.  "Despite the circumstances that may have made such action necessary, the facts remain.  We are _all_ guilty of doing some terrible things."

"'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.'"  Hank's claws rested lightly on the tabletop.  "I find I must agree with Jean.  It isn't our place to judge."

Charles felt a swell of relief.  His own heart was torn between condemning Remy for his actions and wanting to wipe the slate clean and give him the chance at a new life he knew the young man desperately wanted.  That he himself wanted, as well.  In the privacy of his thoughts, Charles was forced to admit it was in part out of guilt that he wanted to give Remy this chance.  Guilt that, somehow, if he had been able to be a part of Remy's life for more than a few years, these things would never have happened.  He wanted to make everything right, even though he knew he couldn't fix the past.

Ororo spoke into the silence following Jean's words.  "I must confess that I am... torn.  I have always suspected Remy had some dark portions to his past, though I truly did not guess _how_ dark."  She paused and seemed to be considering her thoughts even as she voiced them.  "Remy saved my life when we first met.  But still, that is not what I have cherished about him."  Her gaze had taken on a faraway look.  "We were running for our lives from the Shadow King.  I was only a child, with little control over my powers, but I insisted on trying to fly an entire airplane as our escape, rather than just using the winds to carry us away.  Remy tried to convince me that it was suicide to take the airplane, but I would not listen.  He could have called me a fool-- rightly so-- and abandoned me to my fate."  She smiled slightly.  "He did call me a fool, though politely."  Her smile died.  "But he put his life in my hands instead of leaving."  Her gaze returned to the present.  "He trusted me long before I was willing to trust him.  And when I had nothing else, no one else to depend on and no memory of who I was, he was there.  In the years since I have known him, Remy has never betrayed my trust.

"It pains me greatly to know the past, but that does not change what I know about the present.  In my opinion, Remy is an X-Man for the same reason the rest of us are.  He has earned it."

Logan nodded in agreement.  "She's right.  Gambit's always toed the line with the rest of us.  He's put his life on the line too many times fer me ta believe that he don't care about anybody but himself."  He pointed at Scott.  "An' I don't much care if he believes in the Prof's dream or not.  Some days, I don't think too much of it myself."  He glanced sidelong at Charles.  "No offense, Chuck."

Charles managed to contain his surprise and nodded.  All eyes had come to rest on him.  He turned to the X-men who had yet to express an opinion, beginning with the most unlikely of the list.  "Bishop?"

The giant black man turned to look at him.  The "M" tattooed across his face stood out in stark contrast with the confusion in his eyes.  "I... would rather not say anything, Professor."

Charles felt a stab of pity.  Bishop had at least as much emotional stake in this as himself.  Come to think of it, he suddenly realized Bishop was his grandson.  The answering swirl of emotions threatened to distract him entirely from the current discussion.  He did his best to push the thought away, and then turned to Betsy.

"Elizabeth?"

She sighed.  "I honestly don't know, Professor.  I was right, but I don't want to just condemn him.  As a matter of practicality, he would most likely become our enemy-- in time perhaps a very powerful enemy.  From the personal side... I don't know.  I'm not sure I can forgive him, but I would be ashamed to discover that I am incapable of forgiving someone who obviously _does_ regret his actions.  I think that's the most important thing.  Remy does regret what he's done.  He is trying to do what's right.  What right do we have to demand anything more?"

She shrugged uncomfortably.  "I'm not going to be comfortable having him at my back for a long time, though.  And Scott's right that that's dangerous in a battle."  Her gaze swept the room.  She seemed sheepish.  "I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help."

Charles turned to the last member of the team.  "Sam?"

The newest X-Man looked at him.  His gaze was direct, but not very confident.  "Ah have to agree with Scott, sir," he said.  The X-Men have to be a team in order to accomplish anything.  Ah don't think Gambit's ever going ta really be part o' the team."

Charles sighed and steepled his fingers in front of him.  If he were to tally a vote, it would be four for, four against, two undecided and one abstaining. And himself.  Now it was time to take up his role as leader of the X-Men, and hope that he could somehow separate his personal feelings from his duty to those who followed him.

He cleared his throat.  "Thank you all for expressing yourselves honestly.  I am reassured to know that each of you is willing to hold to your convictions, whether you think they agree with mine or not.

"I am forced to go back to the very beginning, to the purpose for which I created the X-Men.  That purpose is to teach mutants to live peacefully with non-mutants, and to protect mutants and humans from each other whenever one group decides to turn its intolerance into violence.  That is why each of you is here.  It is also why Remy is here-- to learn, as each of you has, how to live without hatred towards others.  To act to protect instead of destroy.  In these terms, I have to consider Gambit to be an unqualified success.  Proof of the validity of my dream.

"In more personal matters-- Remy is my son.  As difficult as that is to swallow, it is the truth.  Therefore, this is his home, to which he has a right that has nothing to do with the X-Men.  I will not take that away from him again."

"Amen ta that, Chuck," said Logan.

"So Gambit is going to stay with the X-Men."  Scott leaned back in his chair.  It wasn't a question.

Charles nodded and was saddened to know how much it hurt to be at odds with this man who was truly the son of his heart.  "If he wants to, yes," he said.  "I know there is the chance for a great deal of conflict because of this, and I do not want to see the X-Men torn apart.  More than anything, I do not want to see that.  All I'm asking is that each of you try to make this work."  He looked around and received acquiescing nods from most of the assembled.  He knew that was the best he could hope for.

#

Remy LeBeau stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Water dripped from his chin where he'd just rinsed the last of the shaving cream away.  He picked up the towel without looking and dried his face, all the while staring at the stranger in the mirror.  The features hadn't changed, but the man behind them was very different.

_So who are y' dis mornin'?_ he asked the reflection.  From Cerebro, he knew he'd slept for two days. The indefinable stillness he sensed in the house made him certain the X-Men now knew everything.  He had been dawdling over getting ready for nearly an hour just because it gave him a reason not to go out and face them.

_Still, y' can' hide here forever, Remy._ He paused, letting the towel slide from his fingers into the sink. Remy.  That wasn't even his name anymore.  Not Remy.  Not LeBeau.  It was Rem'aillon Neramani.  A Shi'ar name that sounded completely alien to his French-trained ear.

He shook the thoughts away and finished drying off.  Then he went to get dressed.  Torn jeans, tank shirt, boots.  The combination was normal for him, but still it made him pause.  He knew perfectly well that it was a rejection of what was considered proper and respectable.  He'd been doing that for years.  But now that attitude that he'd hidden behind so often seemed pale and pathetic.  But what would be better?  Clean up his act?  Cut his hair short and get rid of the earring?  Try to look like Scott, like Charles Xavier's son _ought_ to look like?

He tossed himself backward onto the bed, put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.  Charles Xavier's son.  He rolled the thought around.  More than anything, he dreaded seeing the Professor.  For so long he'd wondered who his parents were, what they were like.  Why they hadn't wanted him.  Now he knew, and they'd turned out to be more than he'd ever hoped for.  But what would the Professor think of him?  Would he be...disappointed?  Remy snorted.  Yeah, probably.

Remy sighed and sat up.  He might as well get it over with.  Chances were he'd be leaving before dark, anyway.  He didn't think the X-Men would be too willing to forgive what he'd done.

_Y' knew it'd cost y' everyt'ing,_ he told himself.  For a moment, the room seemed intolerably empty.  No one had been waiting for him when he woke.  Not Rogue, not Ororo, not even the Professor.  It was possible they were just giving him some privacy, but in his heart he doubted that.  It was just that he was a fool who kept hoping for miracles.

The antique clock on the bureau chimed, twelve minutes slow as always.  Remy looked around at the accumulation of his life with the X-Men.  There wasn't much, but everything he looked at brought back memories.  The garter from Scott and Jean's wedding hung on the corner of the mirror.  His eyes fastened on it for several long moments, then fell to the com badge on the dresser that glinted metallically in the morning light.  He picked it up and considered it, then dropped it into his pocket.  As much as he really wanted to leave it, he could just hear Scott reading him the riot act for not keeping the com badge on him at all times.  He almost smiled.  It seemed strange that he still cared about things like that.

All conversation died when he stepped into the dining room.  Remy held grimly to his best poker face as he looked them over.  He noted the two absences immediately, and his heart sank.  Rogue and the Professor.  After a moment, Storm rose and approached him.

"Good morning, Remy."  Her smile seemed genuine.  Deftly, she took him by the arm and led him toward the table.  "Are you hungry?"

"Uh, I guess."  To his surprise, Scott nodded briefly at him, expression neutral, then went back to what seemed to be a conversation in progress with Bishop and Logan.  From the hand language, it appeared to have something to do with aircraft approach vectors.  Logan gave him a somewhat friendlier nod as they passed.  Bishop's eyes remained locked in front of him.

Storm was doing an excellent job of managing him, Remy thought wryly as she settled him in the empty chair beside her place.  Without asking, she began to serve him breakfast.  Other conversations began to pick up around the table.

Across from him, Beast swallowed a mouthful of sausage and gestured at Remy with the empty fork.  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Remy almost told him what a stupid question that was, but stopped himself.  "Fine."  The last thing he needed to do was deliberately antagonize people.

Hank didn't seem to notice.  "Well, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at you once we're done here.  I'll admit it's probably a horrible thing to be poked and prodded by a curious physician, but I would appreciate it immensely."  His smile was disarming.

"Ain't dat a bit late, Hank?"  Remy gave up on trying to keep up the polite pretense.  His nerves were strung taut.  

"A bit late for what?"

"T' be tellin' me I'm not all de way human?  Shouldn' y' have said somet'ing a long time ago?"  The table quieted abruptly.

Hank set his fork down and dabbed at his lips with the napkin before answering.  "I'm afraid I didn't know, as odd as that may sound."

"How could y' possibly not know?  I don' remember how many times I been in dat infirmary."  Remy tried to keep his voice from rising, but he felt an odd sense of betrayal.  Couldn't someone have warned him that he wasn't who or what he thought?

Hank smiled in sympathy.  "I can understand your frustration, but the truth is that when one is dealing with mutants, the old adage applies-- 'Anything goes'."  He shrugged.  "I have certainly been aware that you have highly exotic blood chemistry.  You should have known it as well if you'd ever had your blood typed.  But that's common to most energy-users.  Mutants who generate or convert energy from other sources have to metabolize that energy somehow.  Usually, it's done through the blood, and perhaps the liver.  The chemical requirements to create or store energy radically alters the blood, and makes it type as an exotic. Your blood is different from, but not any _more _different, than Scott's or Bishop's.  I never had any reason to look beyond mutancy for an explanation."

Remy considered that for a moment and was forced to concede the point.  He opened his mouth to apologize, but Hank continued before he could utter a sound, "I went back and checked your X-rays, too.  Again, I knew your skeleton was unusual.  Most of the joints are different, with higher rotational allowances and duplicated sets of ligaments.  Strange bone composition, too.  Your skeleton weighs about twenty pounds less than it ought-- or did you ever wonder why the scale says one-seventy-five when it ought to be a lot closer to two-hundred?"  Hank didn't wait for a reply.  "Still, I simply assumed the changes were a mutation that accounted for your agility.  After all, _my_ skeleton is a lot less human than yours, so I never really looked for any other explanation."  Hank picked up his fork, stabbed a new piece of sausage and put it in his mouth.  Still chewing, he added, "Now that I know to look for Shi'ar influences, I'm very curious.  You're only the second human-Shi'ar mix we know of."

Remy stared at Beast, thoroughly bemused.  He'd been spoiling for a fight, whether he really wanted to admit it or not, and had gotten a scholarly lecture instead.  It was impossible to stay angry with Hank's childlike curiosity.

"You know," Hank was wagging his fork thoughtfully, "Adam X is that other human-Shi'ar mix I mentioned.  We haven't exactly had much contact with him, but I do believe he's your cousin."

"Huh?"

Further down the table, Scott turned abruptly to stare at Hank.  "What do you mean, Hank?"

"Well, Adam is D'Ken's son and your half brother," he pointed at Scott, "as much as you dislike the fact."  He turned to Remy.  "D'Ken and Lilandra are-- or were-- siblings, making him your cousin."  He set his fork down again.  "Strange, isn't it?"

Remy stood abruptly.  His head felt like it was spinning.  "'Scuse me."

"Remy, you have not eaten."  Storm watched him with concern.  "Where are you going?"

Remy didn't look at her.  "Jus' got t' get some air, Stormy."  He took two steps and stopped, unable to leave the room without asking the one question he'd been doing his best to throttle for fear of the answer.  He turned back to Ororo.  "Have y' seen Rogue, chere?"  He tried to make the question sound casual, though he didn't believe for a moment that he could fool her.  The suddenly renewed silence and her sympathetic expression confirmed his worst fears before she ever spoke.

"I am sorry.  Rogue left yesterday and has not returned."

Remy felt as if rivulets of ice were creeping down his spine.  "Did she take her com badge?"

"No."

Snap.  Just like that.  She was gone again.  This time, probably forever.  Remy fought down the urge to run out of the room.  He'd known this would happen.  He had.  And even though the X-Men had seemed to be willing to pretend that today was just another day, he knew the changes were irrevocable.


	20. [20]

Chapter 20

"You low-down, slimy, belly-crawling snake!"  Forge stops dead in the doorway and stares at the machinery that occupies most of the cavernous room.

Several steps ahead of him, the Witness turns.  His expression is only mildly curious.

"I thought it was destroyed!"  Forge gestures toward the machine.

"You were supposed to."

"You set that up?"  Forge's anger has not dimmed.  In fact, the expression in his eyes has grown black.

The Witness only nods.

"My... daughter was _killed_ in that raid."  Forge forces the words out.  His hands have balled into fists.

The Witness nods again, sadly.  "I know.  She wasn' supposed t' be dere.  De folks dat were supposed t' be sittin' on her underestimated her powers."  He turns away and steps toward the machine.  "But, in a little while, she'll never have been born.  So it don' much matter anymore."

Forge stands silently for several long minutes as the Witness busies himself with a control panel.  Then, "You really bet everything on that, didn't you?" he says.

"Oui."  The Witness does not look up.

"Why?"  Forge crosses the room.  His anger has been replaced by pained curiosity.

"Why what?"

"Why take this?"  He gestures at the intricate metal construction that rises well above their heads.  "I was going to go back to the X-Men.  Warn them."

"Dat would've been 'gainst de rules."

"How?  You weren't _sending_ me.  That's the loophole that let Bishop go back.  He made the choice himself."

The Witness pauses to look at Forge.  "De difference is dat you were actin' on information _I_ gave you.  Bishop wasn'.  He made de choice blind."  He flips a set of switches.  "If y'd gone back, de paradox would've wrecked everyt'ing."

Forge is silent, thinking.  Then, "You should have asked me, Remy."  His eyes are old and sad.  "I could have mothballed this project myself... No one had to get hurt."

The Witness' gaze is flat, but not unsympathetic.  "You weren' listenin' t' me in dose days, remember?  I ran out o' choices."  A deep thrumming rises through the floor as the machine powers up.

Forge sighs and checks his watch.  "How much time do we have?"

The Witness closes his eyes, feeling with his mind for the disturbance.  "On dis end, 'bout five minutes."  The impending time wave rushes toward them like a black wall.  Remy LeBeau has no interest in being present when it hits.  Not yet, at least.  He sets a countdown timer.

"De automatic recall'll trip two minutes after we leave.  It's set t' give us forty-eight hours in de past.  Den--"

"Then we get yanked back here just in time to be smashed by the new time line."  Forge's expression is grim.  "I know how it works."

Without another word, the two men step between the focusing arrays.  After a moment, their forms seem to ripple and elongate as invisible energy is bounced back and forth across the space they occupy.  Then, with a miniature thunderclap of displaced air, they are gone.

#

Remy found himself out at the end of the small dock, staring into the water.  He hadn't planned to go there, but it was a straight line from the back door.  He had been walking blindly-- long strides that took him away from the house as quickly as possible without admitting he was running away.  The only reason he had stopped was that he had run out of land.  The next step would put him in the lake.  He rocked back and forth on his heels, considering.  It has suddenly become a difficult choice whether to turn around and backtrack so that he could go around the lake, or to just jump in and swim.  All he was really aware of was that he wanted to be as far away as possible from this place and these people as he could get.  He had seen their eyes and their knowing stares.  Their disgust at what he had done.  Even Storm, though she had been kind, had only sadness in her eyes.  It made his gut ache.

He noticed his distorted reflection in the rippled water.  _Should've know better,_ he told it.  _Carin' only gets y' hurt._ Then his mouth quirked into a haunted smile.  _But maybe dat's life's way o' evenin' out de score._

"Is that really what you believe, Remy?"  The question was soft and sad.

Remy stiffened.  "You readin' my mind dese days?  I t'ought dat was against y' personal code o' conduct."

Charles sighed.  "I'm afraid your defenses are not what they have been in the past.  You're projecting-- I couldn't help but overhear.  I'm... sorry for the intrusion."

Remy turned around, but could not bring himself to meet the other man's eyes.  After several moments of uncomfortable silence, he finally blurted out, "I don' even know what t' call you."  He felt completely helpless before this man who was supposed to be his father.  Helpless and insufficient.

To his surprise, Charles began to laugh, though his mirth was strained.  "I don't know the answer to that one, either."  His solemnity returned.  "I suppose you should simply pick whatever is most comfortable to you."

_But that don' tell me what_ you _want, does it?  Or are y' just tryin' t' be nice and not tell me?_  The thoughts had hardly passed through his mind before Remy remembered what caliber of telepath he was talking to. He tried to slam shut the doors of his mind, but he knew he'd been far too late when Charles looked away.

After a bare moment, Charles turned back.  This time their gazes met.  Remy wasn't sure, but he thought he saw both hurt and anger reflected there.  Charles didn't bother trying to pretend he hadn't heard.

"I don't know what I want," he admitted slowly.  "I--  this is hard.  All of these things that are part of the past for you haven't happened to me yet.  My memories of you begin two years ago.  I've _seen_ your past, but I don't _remember_ it.  I don't remember a... a child."

Remy shrugged.  "Lots o' folks get strapped wit kids dey don' want, Professor.  Least I'm plenty old enough t' take care o' myself an' get out o' de way."  He started to turn away.

"I don't want you to leave, Remy."  

Remy closed his eyes.  It was just one little sentence, but one that he so desperately wanted to hear.  Especially when it came from the mouth of a man he knew would not lie to him.  Especially when it came from _this_ man.  Still, that didn't change anything, really.

"I don' belong here.  You an' me both know dat."

"I know nothing of the sort."  There was anger now in Charles' voice.  "This is your home."

Remy sighed.  "I been tryin' t' be an X-Man since I got here, Professor.  It's time I stopped pretendin' t' be somethin' I'm not."

"An' if ya don't stop sniveling, it's gonna be time fer ya ta stop pretendin' yer conscious."  Both Charles and Remy were startled by the new voice.  Logan stood three steps behind Charles' hoverchair, glowering at Remy.  He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. His fingers flexed rhythmically, as if he itched to extend his claws.  Remy hadn't felt him approach, but that wasn't too unusual with Wolverine.  He knew how to move so that he both looked and felt like a natural part of the landscape.

Remy wasn't certain how to respond.  Sniveling?   He was, for once, trying to be responsible and not cause any more pain, for any of them.  "Aren' you de one dat's always tellin' me t' grow up an' quit playin' games?"

"I just call 'em like I see 'em, kid."

"And?"  Remy was confused.  It sounded for all the world like they were agreeing, but Logan's expression said otherwise.

"And yer a snot-nosed punk most o' the time.  But ya earned a place on this team because ya fought for it.  Leavin' now just makes ya a coward."

Remy felt a hot flash of anger at the insult.  Cards slid into his hand, coming to sudden, glowing life like a newly lit flare.  "I'll go 'round wit _you_ anytime, Wolverine."

Logan smiled like a predator with his belly full.  "Prove me wrong an' we'll see, kid."  Then he pivoted on one heel and sauntered away.

Remy watched him go, his thoughts tumbling in confusion.  He understood what Logan had been trying to say.  He just wasn't sure he believed it.

"He's right, you know," Charles said.  "The past is not who you are now.  What you do from today on is what will determine if you belong with the X-Men or not.  That choice is yours."

Remy considered the implications of what he said.  "Sorta sounds like y' puttin' me on probation," he concluded finally.

Charles tried to stifle his laughter, which emerged as a muffled snort.  

"What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry Remy.  Please forgive me.  I just find it painfully amusing to realize that I seem to be a rotten father, but a very effective professor."

"You're not--"

"A rotten father?"  They stared at each other.  Charles' expression dared Remy to deny what he said. Remy found he couldn't summon the glib persona that could have lied to him with a perfectly straight face.  All of his facades had been shattered and the pieces ground into dust.  It left him feeling dangerously exposed.

Charles sighed, but it was a relaxed sound, as if the tension were draining out of him.  "Perhaps you should put me on probation, too.  This can be a trial period for us both."

Remy nodded slowly.  Some of the coldness was seeping out of him.  He still didn't feel like he belonged, but maybe it was worth trying to for just a little while longer.

#

Rogue woke to the sound of voices-- a man and a woman, with the continuous piping of children mixed in.  She opened her eyes resentfully.  The family was intruding on what she had always felt was her own private piece of Mississippi River bank.  She sat up, wincing at stiff muscles.  Despite her powers, the ground was still an uncomfortable place to sleep.  

She was curled up at the base of her favorite tree.  The old tire swing still hung out over the water as it had since her childhood.  One of the couple's little boys was currently aboard.  As Rogue watched, he reached the top of his arc over the water and let go, falling into the water with a yell.  She smiled despite herself.  There was something infectious about a child's joy.

The couple had not noticed Rogue.  The tree grew out of a hummock of land that overlooked the small beach.  It canted heavily toward the water, and looked like it might lose its grip on the bank at any moment and tumble into the river.  Seated by the tangle of roots, Rogue was behind and above the family.  She wrapped her hands around her knees and watched them.  The couple had spread out towels on the bank and now sat side by side, watching the two boys who sported in the water.  Watching them awakened the now-familiar ache.  The two below her were engaged in a round of subtle flirting, from the brush of one shoulder against another to the sidelong glances they gave each other to the way the woman tilted her head back, ostensibly to bare her neck to the warm sun.  Rogue wanted to run away screaming, but she couldn't move.  She couldn't bear to interrupt the scene, as much as it felt like someone was driving hot irons into her belly.

One of the boys climbed out of the water and hurtled toward the man, throwing himself into his father's arms.  The two fell backwards and the result was a brief wrestling match that ended only because the boy was giggling so hard he couldn't breathe.  Tears misted Rogue's vision.  Through them, the scene changed.  The man took on a different visage-- taller, leaner.  The voice became smoother, rich in its accent, and the laughter was one that she had heard only once, in that little Cajun restaurant in Greenwich Village.  One magical night when he had thrown all of his problems away and had laughed freely at a joke she'd made.  The boy in his arms would have red hair, of course, and a healthy dose of his father's penchant for trouble.

She watched as the second boy joined the fray, tears leaking down her face.  They piled onto the man, clinging to him like little apes and screaming whenever he caught one and held him for a brief bout of tickling.  The tag-team approach failed, unsurprisingly, and eventually ended when the man scooped both boys up and carried them into the river, tossing them into the water despite the screeching protest.

It had all seemed so possible, just a few days ago.  Rogue sighed and wiped the tears away.  Every time she closed her eyes she heard Tanya's screams, felt the wild hatred.  It scared her more than anything ever had.  Her nightmares were filled with fire and explosions and the imagined cries of those trapped in the flames.  She didn't know how to live with that-- how to love that.

The commotion on the beach stilled.  All four were staring skyward, the boys jumping up and down and pointing.  Rogue craned her neck to see past the foliage that shaded her and was not surprised to see Storm descending.  She landed a short ways from the family, her blue cat's eyes scanning the area until she spotted Rogue.  The people watched them for several long moments then went back to their swimming, though they were far more subdued.  At another time, Rogue would have been encouraged to see that, but today she barely noticed.

"How'd ya find me?" she asked.

Storm smiled cooly.  "Intuition."  She climbed the last few steps to stand beside Rogue.  "Do you mind if I sit down?"

Rogue shrugged.  "Help yaself, sugar."

Storm settled beside her, smoothing her brightly colored skirt and tucking her bare feet beneath the hem.  Rogue snorted privately.  Storm was the only person she knew who would fly halfway across the country barefoot.

After a moment, Storm opened her mouth to speak, but Rogue cut her off.  "Save ya breath, sugar.  Ah'm not goin' back there."

"You are leaving the X-Men?"

Rogue nodded.  She kept her gaze fixed on the toes of her boots so she wouldn't have to meet Storm's eyes and the disapproval she was certain she would find there.

"You left us once before Rogue," Storm reminded her.  "It did not solve anything."

"Ah don't think there's any solvin' to be done."  Rogue closed her eyes, fighting tears.  "Ah just _can't_ go back there."  She felt Storm's arm encircle her shoulders.

"Remy needs you," Storm said quietly.

"Needs me!"  Rogue exploded to her feet.  "He _needs_ a psychiatrist!"  The tears she had been trying to hold back burst forth.  "Don't ya see, Storm?  Ah have his memories.  Ah _remember_ bein' there."  She held out her hands.  "Ah _remember_ doin' those things.  Ah remember how it sounded and smelled and felt."  Her knees buckled. She crumpled to the ground, arms wrapped protectively about her waist.  "An' ah'm so scared... "

Storm took Rogue into her arms, rocking her like a small child as she cried.  Then she took Rogue by both shoulders and stared directly into her eyes.  "That is why you are the only one who can help Remy.  Only you can truly share his pain."  Her eyes narrowed.  "It is a burden no person can carry alone."

Rogue pulled free of the other woman's grasp.  "What about you?  Remy says you're his best friend."

Storm sighed.  "I am doing what I can.  But you have touched on the heart of the matter.  I am _only_ a friend."

The two women sat quietly, watching the children play below them.  Eventually, Rogue broke the silence.

"How...?  How could ah go back?  Ah don't think ah could evah look him in the eye again, knowin'... " She trailed off helplessly.

Storm cocked her head.  "How do you think Remy feels every time he tries to look any of us in the eye?  Would it really be so hard to forgive-- and give him a chance to start over?"

Rogue stared at the gently lapping water.  "How?"

Steel crept into Storm's voice.  "The same way we forgave you when you first joined the X-Men."

Rogue's head jerked up in surprise. She turned to Storm, suddenly at a loss for words.  Storm's expression was compelling.

"If nothing else, I demand this much from you, Rogue.  I was willing to forgive what you did to Carol Danvers, and accept that you were making a fresh start with the X-Men.  Now I want the same from you in return, for the sake of my friend."

Rogue knew she was staring, jaw agape, but she couldn't help it.  She couldn't help but feel intimidated.  Storm's anger was very thoroughly controlled, but she could sense it roiling beneath the surface.  Worse than that was the deep stab of guilt that accompanied Storm's words.  Storm was right and she knew it.  She had no right to judge-- she was guilty of enough crimes of her own.  Perhaps that was why Remy scared her so badly.  It was like staring into a dark mirror of her own soul, forcing her to face herself as much as him.  That made what Storm asked all that much harder.  She had to forgive herself, too.

"Ah'll try," she told the waiting woman.

Storm's smile was brief, but warm.  "Then shall we go home?"

Rogue shook her head.  "Not yet."  She stared at the river.  "Ah want ta stay here fo' a while longer."  She turned to Storm.  "But ah will come home.  Ya have mah word."

Storm nodded and rose.  "I will be waiting."  She rose on whispering winds that made the trees sway and bob.  Rogue watched until her form had dwindled into the midday sky.  Then she settled with her back to the tree trunk and leaned her head against the rough bark.  She had a lot to think about.


	21. [21]

Chapter 21

Scott rolled the dice and moved his piece forward six places, landing on St. James Place.  He groaned.  Not again.

"Pay up, mister."  Bobby stuck out his hand, grinning.

Scott counted out the appropriate rent.  "This is the third time, Bobby."

"Well, if you'd quit rolling doubles and landing yourself in jail, you wouldn't have this problem."  Jean eyed him slyly.

"Tell me you haven't been telekinetically controlling the dice," Scott said with a laugh. 

Jean put a hand to her breast in mock surprise.  "Who, me?"  Then she smiled.  "Of course not.  Bishop, it's your turn."

Bishop made his role and landed on Water Works.

"Oooh.  Buy it, Bish!"  Bobby patted the giant man on the shoulder.

"What?  Water Works?  Don't waste your money."

Bishop glanced at Scott.  "Why not?"

"It's a waste."

"Are you kidding?"  Bobby leaned conspiratorially toward Bishop and whispered something.  Bishop betrayed no reaction except a small flicker of one eyebrow.

"I do not think I will buy the Water Works," he said after a moment.

"Hey!"  

At Bobby's expression of outrage, Jean burst out laughing.  After a bit, Bobby subsided and picked up the dice.  His role landed him on Kentucky.

"Buy it," he said immediately, and counted out the last of his hundreds.  He gave them to Bishop, who in return held out his other hand.  The square white card with its red label materialized in his fingers. He handed it to Bobby.

The smooth sleight of hand wasn't lost on Scott.  "I see Gambit's been teaching you card tricks," he commented.

Bishop lowered his gaze.  "When I was a kid."  There was a thoughtful quality to the statement Scott hadn't heard before.  He wondered how recent events had affected Bishop's opinion of the man.

Bobby threw his hands up.  "Geez, can't anybody have a conversation without talking about him?"

"What's wrong, Bobby?"  Jean picked up the dice.

Scott could tell Bobby was angry by the set of his jaw.  "Nothing's wrong.  I'm just sick and tired of talking about Gambit."

Scott shrugged.  "There's been a lot to talk about."  He had tried to keep his own opinions quiet for the most part.  It was his place as team leader to help everyone work together.  He had been doing his best to minimize the negative reactions to Gambit's past, which meant that he had to keep his own negative opinions to himself.  Plus, keeping his mouth shut meant he didn't have to argue with Jean's adamant support for the young man.

Bobby wasn't ready to give up the topic.  "If you ask me, there's nothing to talk about.  We should have just tossed him out on his butt and good riddance."

Scott sighed to himself.  Not again.  He could feel Jean's anger growing through their mind link.  The fur was going to be flying in a few minutes if he didn't do something to stop it.

"That's not an option, and you know it," he said calmly.  "Gambit is staying.  Complaining about it isn't going to change anything."

The stubborn set of Bobby's jaw didn't change.  Bishop looked from him to Scott and back again.  His expression was closed, unreadable as always.  Then, without warning, he reached across the table and grabbed the front of Bobby's shirt, pulling him close, until their faces were only inches apart.

"Do you know _why_ Gambit let the Professor scan his mind?" Bishop's voice was a menacing snarl.

"Huh?  Uh, well, of course."  Bobby stumbled after a reply.  Bishop stared at him with cold intensity.  "He, uh, he wanted to know who the traitor was."

"Indeed." The single word was ice cold.  Scott held his breath.  Bishop had said absolutely nothing about his feelings since learning the truth about Gambit and the X-traitor.  He had the feeling that was about to change.

"In other words," Bishop continued, "he risked everything he had-- us, Rogue, even his sanity-- to find out who killed the X-Men.  All of that, just to save your pitiful hide.  And all you can do is complain!"  He released Bobby abruptly, and sent him sprawling back in his chair.  He straightened and stared down at the stunned mutant.

"Maybe you should try showing a little gratitude instead."  Bishop turned on his heel and left. They could hear his heavy footsteps diminishing as he moved away from the boathouse.  Scott and Jean stared at each other, speechless.

After a long pause, Scott told Jean, _Maybe I should go talk to him._

She smiled and nodded fractionally.  _I'll make sure Bobby stays out of trouble._  There was just a hint humor in her mental voice.  She seemed inordinately pleased by Bishop's reaction.

Scott rose from the table.  Bobby watched him, but for once was without comment.  As he was closing the front door behind him, he heard Jean say, "Bishop is just full of surprises, isn't he?" and wondered if leaving the two of them together was a wise idea. 

#

Scott had to resort to using Cerebro to find Bishop.  He had gone to Storm's attic loft and now stood amid the rampant greenery, staring at nothing.  Or so Scott guessed.  Otherwise, he was staring at the Wandering Jew that tumbled out of its pot on the stand directly before him.  Scott didn't think Bishop was the kind to have much interest in plants.  The only reason Scott recognized the purple-green leaves was because Jean had been trying to cultivate some cuttings that Storm had given her, and every morning, he had to move it to get to the coffee.

"Are you all right, Bishop?" he asked.

Bishop turned his head a fraction, acknowledging Scott's presence.  "I... apologize for my outburst.  It was uncalled for."

Scott shrugged.  "There's no reason to apologize.  I'll admit I was a bit surprised, though."

Bishop was silent for several long moments.  He took one of the Wandering Jew's leaves between his thumb and forefinger, examining it.  The fleshy leaf seemed frail in his giant hand.

"I hated him," he said quietly.

"Gambit?"  Scott tried to make his voice encouraging.  Bishop kept his emotions so thoroughly repressed there was no telling how much he would be willing to say.  Scott could see the conflict inside Bishop and knew how much it must be eating at him.  He needed some kind of release-- someone to talk to.  He briefly wished Storm were there, but squashed the thought.  It was his responsibility to take care of his team, and that meant more than just seeing to their physical safety.

Bishop nodded in response to the question.  "As long as I can remember.  It wasn't just about the traitor-- I didn't suspect him of that until just before I came here."  Bishop paused.  "He was always so cold.  I never really believed he cared about us."

"And now you think differently?"  Scott heard the catch in his own voice.  Bishop's feelings fell too close to those that Cable had once expressed for the father who had abandoned him.  They'd come to an understanding eventually, but that didn't keep the memories from being painful.

Bishop turned to face Scott.  "No.  He raised me to be a tool-- to send here so the X-Men could be saved.  He cared about you..." His gaze fell.  "...not me."

Scott wished desperately that he could do something to ease the other man's pain.  "I'm sorry," was all he could think of to say.

"It's not important."  Bishop hooked his thumbs in his belt.  The vulnerability that had been there so briefly was vanishing.  "Gambit has already proved that he is willing to sacrifice anything for the X-Men.  Raising me and sending me here is just a part of that."

"That doesn't make it hurt any less."

Bishop cocked his head as if torn between agreeing with and denying Scott's assessment.  "No it doesn't.  And I do not think I will ever forgive him completely for using me."  Then his tone lightened a fraction. "But I have learned respect.  I might have made the same choices."

Scott didn't have a response.  _Respect_ for Gambit wasn't something he had even considered.  Now the concept haunted him.  He understood suddenly what Jean had been trying to explain to him for the past few days.

He put a hand on Bishop's shoulder.  "Are you going to be all right?"

Bishop nodded.  "I will manage."

Scott left him to his thoughts.  He had some thinking of his own to do, too.  As he descended the stairs, he couldn't help but wonder if he shouldn't plan to spend some serious down-time at Harry's in the very near future.

#

"Bishop is just full of surprises, isn't he?"  Jean rested chin on hand and watched Bobby across the table.  She hoped she didn't sound too smug, but it had been a delight to see Bishop, of all people, telling Bobby to stick a sock in it.  His bias against Remy had been wearing thin on her.

Bobby scowled.  "Save the lecture, Phoenix.  I don't want to hear it."

Jean just raised an eyebrow.  She was prodding him and she knew it, but it was time to air a few things.  So, "What lecture?" she asked.

"The 'It isn't Gambit's fault because he lived through hell as a kid' lecture.  I'm sorry, Jean, but I just don't buy it.  He's as responsible for what he's done as the rest of us."

Jean considered that.  "He is responsible, yes.  But that doesn't mean there isn't room for compassion.  Do you really think that punishing him would make things better?  For anyone?"

"It's what he deserves."  Bobby sat up abruptly and pointed a finger at Jean.  "Someday Gambit's got to learn that there are consequences to the things he does.  He can't just sail through life without paying for his mistakes.  So, yeah, I do think punishing him would do some good."

Jean had to stop and think.  Bobby had hit too close to her own private worry.  Remy really did do a lot of things without seeing their consequences.  But her soul rebelled at the idea of causing him any more pain.  She was still trying to put her thoughts together, even as she voiced them.

"Remy has been hurt too often and too deeply, Bobby.  He expects it.  Punishment of any kind, deserved or not, wouldn't phase him.  Kindness and trust are the things that will have an impact on him."  She toyed with a lock of her hair, twisting it around one finger.  "What he deserves isn't what will help him.  And to be honest, I'm not all that certain he really deserves any more than has already happened to him."

"I don't think that lady agent would agree with you."

"Bobby!"

"Hey, don't come down on me just because I don't like the guy.  I've _always_ thought he was a creep."  He shrugged.  "Turns out I was right."

Jean stared at him in dismay.  "Didn't you hear anything Bishop said?" she asked.

Bobby was suddenly uncomfortable.  "Yeah.  Sure."

Jean's eyes narrowed.  "You really can't stand the thought that there might be something... worthwhile... in Remy, can you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're jealous, Bobby."  The words came out so matter-of-fact even Jean was surprised.

"Jealous!" Bobby laughed.  "Of what?"

"Of Gambit."

"_Gambit_!  That's absurd, Jean."

"Is it?"

"Yes."  Bobby crossed his arms.  "What in the world do I have to be jealous about?"

Jean considered him as she spoke, wondering if he was aware of what she, and others, had seen in him.  "Remy is smooth and charming, reckless, and a lot more wild than tame.  He takes chances you would never dream of taking.  I think you wish you had some of that wildness--"

"What for?"

"Because if you did, you might have developed your mutant power long before now.  And because maybe Rogue would have noticed you."  The moment she said it, Jean knew she had gone too far.  Bobby's face drained of color. The temperature in the room  plummeted.

"I'm sorry, Bobby.  That was completely out of line."  Jean reached out to take his hand, but he shook her off.

"Yeah.  It was."  He stood and walked to the door.  He paused there for a moment as if debating whether to say something, but he left without saying anything.

Jean stared at the door for a long time, then closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the tabletop.  How could one person so completely upset all of their lives?


	22. [22]

Chapter 22

Rogue stood uncertainly in the doorway to the mansion's rec room.  The only light came from the television, which was playing some awful late-night, black and white monster movie.  The volume was high, and between the creature's growls and the hordes of running, screaming people, the two sprawled in front of the TV hadn't yet noticed her.  Rogue debated whether to go in or just get to her room from the outside.  She really didn't want to stop and talk; she was close enough to losing her nerve already.  But she also didn't want to do any more flying.  The night was so pitch black tonight she'd had some trouble navigating.  She'd actually missed the house on her way in and overshot by almost a hundred miles.  The lights of civilization weren't such a good guide when she couldn't see the landscape that went with them.  Still, it would only be a short hop up to her window.

"Well, the prodigal returns."  Hank grinned at her over the back of the couch.  "Welcome home, Rogue."

She summoned a smile.  "Hi, Hank."

Bobby hopped up off of the other couch then stood staring at her, hands in his pockets, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do.

"Hi, Bobby," she suggested when he remained silent.

He smiled sheepishly.  "Hi."

Rogue turned back to Hank.  "Is Remy here?"  She tried to sound casual, and knew she failed miserably.

"I believe so."  Hank had the grace not to smile.

"Thanks."  She headed toward the stairs, grateful for the mercifully short conversation.

"Rogue, I--" That was Bobby.  She turned to face him.

"What, sugar?"

He paused.  "I-- Nothing.  Just be careful, o.k.?"

"Careful?"  Rogue shook her head.  "Ah don't want ta be careful," she told him plainly.  "Ah want ta be happy."  And to his expression, she could only add, "Ah love him."

Bobby caught her arm.  "How?  After everything he's done to you?"

Rogue put her other hand on his shoulder and squeezed.  "Sometimes, sugar, ya just have ta believe."  With that, she left them and headed upstairs.  There was something she had to do.

#

Remy woke suddenly, unable to identify the thing that had alerted him.  The room was pitch black in the moonless night-- even his sensitive eyes could distinguish little.  Adrenaline slid through his veins, but he forced himself to remain still and breathe evenly.  It was a long-time habit he relied on to give his sleep-fuzzed mind time to react.  Unfortunately, he didn't have much time.  His mutant power felt the motion as hands reached toward him from behind his shoulder.  Still half-asleep, Remy rolled toward his attacker, using both hand and foot to throw the bed covers at him.   Then he dove at him, using his speed to get inside the other's guard while he was entangled with the blankets.  Remy's shoulder struck the other squarely in the chest and they fell to ground together.  His assailant let out a grunt of pain as they landed.  Remy grabbed for his wrists, pressing them to the hardwood floor and digging his thumbs into the soft flesh of the inner wrist to force him to release any weapon he might be holding.  It was so dark that he couldn't tell by sight.  He could see nothing but a dark blur where the other was.

Remy was fully awake by the time he came to rest with the other pinned beneath him.  At that point, he realized two things:  One, his attacker was female.  The body beneath his was softly rounded in all of the appropriate places.  And two, she was quiet in his grasp, as if she had no intention of struggling with him.  He had just opened his mouth to say something about it when a voice came out of the darkness.

"Ya sure have a unique way a sayin' hello, sugah."

Remy felt his jaw drop.  "...Rogue?"  He slacked his grip on her wrists.

Her voice colored with laughter.  "In the flesh."

"But... you left."  Remy felt entirely lost.  He had accepted-- somewhat-- the idea that Rogue was gone and would not be coming back.  That he had driven her away completely this time.  To have her suddenly reappear shook him.

Rogue sighed and pulled one hand out of his grasp.  Her fingers came to rest on the back of his neck.  "Ah had ta do some thinkin'."  Almost absently, she stroked his hair.

Remy wished he could see her face.  The lamp on the bedside table was out of his reach and he had the sudden, irrational fear that if he left her to find the light, she would simply evaporate into his dreams.  As long as he was touching her, she remained solid and real in his grasp.  He could only listen to her voice and let memory fill in what his eyes could not.  That voice was subdued, with a hint of deep sadness buried within it.

The hurt was entirely his fault.  He hung his head, feeling shame like a tight band across his chest, until it seemed he could barely breathe.  His hair brushed her face, tangling a bit with her eyelashes. He could feel the tiny tug each time she blinked.

She put both hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her.  Her eyes were dark pits in the pale blur of her face, but Remy could imagine the expression there.

"When... when I started to remember," she said slowly, "ah felt angry and ashamed and scared-- and so alone ah thought ah'd die.  So ah ran away."  She stroked his cheek with her thumb.  "It took me a long time ta realize that it wasn't me feelin' that way... It was you."

The compassion in her voice took Remy's breath away.  She understood.  She really understood.  She knew every dark secret he had, everything he'd done, and she'd come back anyway.  Hot tears filled his eyes, escaping though he clenched the lids tightly closed.  He began to tremble, unable to hold back the sobs.  In one short moment, Rogue had snapped the tight band around his heart.  It was like taking a deep breath of the sweetest air in the world.  He buried his face against her neck and wrapped his arms tightly around her until he could feel her ribs expanding with every breath.

Rogue said nothing more, but simply held him while he cried.  It was a kind of release Remy had never known before.  He had always locked the pain away, crushed it down inside himself with such force that now it hurt to let go of it.  Sobs racked him. He held on to Rogue as if she were the only anchor in a storm-thrown sea.  But slowly the hurt drained away, leaving behind a sort of gaping emptiness where it had been.  Still, as the tears began to dry, he realized the emptiness he felt was not a bad thing, really.  It was empty, yes, but... clean.

The last of his tension drained away.  He was oddly exhausted, yet content.  Rogue radiated a comforting gentle warmth he could feel even through the fabric of his shirt.

They lay like that on the floor for a long time, without speaking.  Nothing needed to be said.  

Eventually, Rogue broke the silence.  "Remy?"

He lifted his head.  "What, chere?"

"This floor is really cold."  

Remy couldn't help it.  He busted out laughing and kissed her.  "Would de bed be better?" he asked.

"Much."  She was laughing, too.  Remy got to his feet and then scooped her up.  He carried her to the bed and set her gently down on it.  He turned the light on then, wanting to see her face.  He found himself staring into her deep green eyes and feeling somewhat at a loss.

Rogue sat on his bed and tucked her toes beneath her shyly, but her grin deepened as she read his uncertainty.  She patted the spot beside her.  "Remy LeBeau, tell me ya ain't goin' shy on me."

Laughing, he settled next to her and twined his fingers into hers.  "Y'know, dat really isn' m' name."

She grew solemn, her gaze fastened on their joined hands.  Remy watched her in concern.  "Rogue?"

She looked up at him.  "Tamara," she said softly.

"'Scuse me?"

"Tamara.  It's my name."  There was a hint of playfulness in her voice.

Remy blinked in surprise at the revelation.  "Really?  Dat's pretty."

"Don't sound so shocked.  What were you expecting?"

"I dunno.  Betty Lou, maybe?"

She smacked him in the shoulder with her open palm in mock outrage.  "Ah ought ta leave right now after that crack."  She started to get up, but Remy pulled her back down beside him.

"Y' not gettin' away from me dat easy, chere."

Her face lit with a familiar wicked grin.  "Ya think ya got what it takes ta keep me here, Cajun?"

Remy felt a smile spread across his face. His gut tightened at the challenge.  He knew she wasn't talking about here, tonight, but here, together, for the rest of their lives.  It was that same exhilarating feeling he got when he was in the middle of a tricky pinch-- right on the edge of getting caught and pushing it for all it was worth.  And the amazing thing with this was that he had no doubt whatsoever that he would win.

A hundred replied fled through his mind, but instead of words, he answered her the only way a wise man could.

#

Charles felt his stomach tighten at the knock on his study door.  This could either go very well or very poorly, and no matter which, it would still be difficult.  

"Come in," he called.

Remy poked his head around the door.  "You rang?"  There was a definite bite of sarcasm to the words. Charles' stomach twisted another notch.  He should have used the intercom.  He hadn't meant to antagonize the young man by calling telepathically, but it was just so hard to watch him locking that portion of his mutant heritage away again.

_You should know better than this, Charles_, he scolded himself.  _Pushing him when he isn't ready won't do any good._ And now they were certainly off to a bad start.  He kept his sigh to himself and tried to gather his wits.

"Hello, Remy."

"Professor."  Remy stepped into the room.  He moved with a predatory ease Charles had come to identify as an instinctive reaction to an uncertain situation.  It hurt to know Remy was that uncomfortable around him, but he couldn't really blame him.  They had had little contact since their one conversation.  Rogue had returned not too long after, to Charles' immense relief, and he had done his best not to interfere in their relationship.  But that was more of an excuse than not.  The truth was that he had a huge number of important things to do, and it was easier to bury himself in his work than deal with his-- very-- estranged son.  Part of the knot in his stomach was shame for having done so. Even now he wanted to shuffle the papers on his desk rather than face the man before him.

He forced his hands to remain still, clasped together on the desk in front of him.  "I've put a call through to the Shi'ar homeworld," he said.  "It will still be a few minutes before they can link up at their end, but I thought you might want to be here."  _So I can introduce Lilandra to the son she hasn't had yet._  He had no idea how Lilandra would react.  The Shi'ar religion was built entirely on the marriage of two gods, and so both marriage, and children-- which they saw as validation of the marriage-- were extremely important to their culture.  Children born outside of wedlock were even more of a cultural taboo there than on Earth.  Lilandra was something of an exception.  As Empress, she could not marry unless she were willing to accede her throne to her husband, who would become Emperor.  Instead, she could take a consort and still keep her throne.  But Charles didn't know if that arrangement allowed for children.  They'd never talked about it.

"So you finally decided t' tell her, eh?"  Remy's gaze was distant, filled with something Charles couldn't see.

"Do you... remember her very well?"

Remy surprised him by switching to Shi'ar.  "Yes."  He turned and wandered over to study the books on one of the many shelves that lined the walls.

Charles didn't know what to say-- or what language to say it in.  The single syllable gave him no clue as to Remy's state of mind, but he suspected Remy was taking a subtle stab at him.  He tried to ignore it, and to keep in mind that he could be misinterpreting the action entirely.  That was one of the most frustrating things.  Remy was impossible to read.  He was too used to hiding his feelings for Charles to trust what he saw, and with his shields in place, too difficult to scan had Charles been willing to try it.

Remy had pulled a book off the shelf and was slowly leafing through it.  It was a copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit" Charles had had since he was a boy.

"My father gave that to me," he said, deciding to stick with English.

"I know."  Remy switched back to English as well. Charles wondered what, if anything, that meant.  He only had a brief moment to consider until Remy continued, "It was my favorite.  Y' used t' read it to me every night when we were here."

Charles' heart did a savage flip-flop.  Remy finished leafing through the book and set it carefully back on the shelf.  His fingers trailed down the spine almost reverently, as if it were important to him to have found a concrete piece of his past.

"Keep it," Charles said on impulse.

Remy shook his head.  "Non.  De book belongs here-- f' now."

Charles didn't get a chance to ask what he meant by that because the computer beeped, announcing the completed connection to the Shi'ar homeworld.  A holographic image began to take shape beside the desk. Charles turned to face it.  Remy walked over and leaned on the corner of the desk.

The projection solidified, and Lilandra smiled at him.  She was still a bit translucent, but Charles had learned to ignore that.  She was dressed in her Imperial armor and held the staff of her office in one hand.  Regal and beautiful, she managed to take his breath away no matter how often he saw her.

"Greetings, Lilandra."  It was a formal address that would probably sound strange to anyone else, but it always seemed appropriate.

"Charles, my love."  Her eyes traveled over him.  "Are you well?"  

He nodded and her gaze moved to Remy.  "Gambit, is it not?"

"Oui."  He watched her with something akin to hunger.  Charles was certain she noticed it when she turned a questioning look to him.

Charles took a deep breath.  "Some... things... have happened recently that I must tell you about."

Lilandra's expression deepened from concern to alarm.  "Is your Earth threatened?" she asked immediately.  The crest of feathers that framed her face quivered as if she were steeling herself for another crisis.

"No, no," he hastened to reassure her.  Since the latest attempted coup, she had been run ragged trying to keep chaos from erupting.  As far as Charles knew, the situation was still highly volatile.  This probably wasn't going to help, but he couldn't keep the truth hidden from her-- not only for the sake of his conscience, but because it was possible an enemy might find a way to use the information against her, and she deserved to be warned.

Lilandra watched him expectantly.

"This is about Gambit."  There was no sense in delaying the inevitable.  Lilandra's alarm faded some, turned to curiosity.  "His real name is Rem'aillon Neramani."

She registered surprise, and turned to Remy.  "You are Shi'ar?"

"Half."  He remained expressionless.

She stared at him for a bare moment as outrage darkened her features.  "D'Ken did not-- !"

"Rape another human woman?  Not that I know of."  Charles hadn't thought she might jump to that conclusion, though it made sense.  

Lilandra's anger dimmed, returned to curiosity.  She watched Charles and waited for an answer.

"Remy is _our_ son, Lil," he told her.  

Lilandra's eyebrows arched in a mixture of surprise and disbelief, and Charles had his own moment of shock.  The speculative expression put a sharp cant on her brows, reminiscent of gull wings.  Remy had that exact same expression, and he had never noticed the similarity before.

Lilandra's mouth worked silently for a short moment before she settled on "How?"  Her gaze darted back and forth between himself and Remy.

Charles sighed.  "The whole story is a long one, and rather... gruesome.  Suffice it to say that he was cast back in time as a child.  He hasn't actually been born yet."

"Indeed."  Charles watched as she and Remy studied each other.  Curious and wary, black eyes and red.  Eventually, Lilandra broke the silence.

"If Charles says that this is so, then it is so."  For a moment, her royal bearing faltered, revealing the woman underneath.  "But I am at a loss for what to say beyond that."

Remy shrugged.  "Y' don' have t' say anyt'ing."

Her smile was grateful.  "You will have to come here once things have quieted down.  So we can talk."

Several expressions warred on Remy's face.  "I would... like dat.  Aman."

Her brows dipped.  "That is going to take some getting used to."

Aman.  Mother.  And he had yet to call Charles anything but "Professor".  Charles tried to keep his sudden stab of jealousy in check.

The hologram wavered and Lilandra looked away toward something or someone he couldn't see.  When she looked back, she was frowning.

"I am sorry.  We're going to lose the transmission in a few moments."  She turned again to Remy.  "But we must talk."

He nodded, and the image rippled again.

"Until then?" she asked.  

"Yes", he answered in Shi'ar and she smiled.  To Charles' surprise, Remy returned the smile.  Already they seemed to share a bond, if a rather tenuous one.

Lilandra turned her attention to Charles.  "Will you come as well?" she asked.

Charles nodded.  "Of course."

The hologram began to fade as she raised her hand in farewell.  Instinctively, Charles reached for her.  Their fingertips passes through each other as the image faded to nothing.  Charles let his hand fall.  It was so easy to believe she was really there until she began to fade.

"Hurts not t' be able t' touch her, don' it?"  Remy stared at his crossed ankles.

"Yes."  That, at least, was something they had in common.  Rogue's decision to take control of her powers didn't keep Remy from understanding exactly how he felt. Charles felt a ray of hope.  It was a place to start.

A loud noise from outside the house prevented any further discussion.  It sounded as if a small tornado had spontaneously erupted on the lawn.  Charles checked the sky through the window, but that remained cheerfully blue.  He traded glances with Remy.

"Stormy throwin' a temper tantrum?" Remy joked, but then Cerebro's alarms began to wail.  Remy bolted to his feet.

Charles' com badge crackled.  "Professor?"

"I'm here, Scott," he answered.  "What is it?"

"I'm not--" He paused as the noise cut out.  "Uh, we appear to have visitors, sir."

"What kind of visitors?"  Charles had sudden visions of the Brood descending on his house.

Scott's voice was studiously neutral.  "The Witness is here, sir.  With Forge."

Remy sagged back onto the desk, shaking his head.  

Charles had to take a minute to gather himself.  "Thank you," he told Scott faintly.  He and Remy eyed each other in silence, as if they were drawing strength from each other to deal with this new event.  As if neither one felt like he could face the Witness, and whatever new disaster he brought with him, alone.  

If it weren't for the knot in his stomach, Charles might have smiled.


	23. [23]

Chapter 23

"Rogue said you left the day before the X-Men were killed."  Jean drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.  It made her look like a little girl curled up in the overstuffed chair.  It was obvious the memories-- Remy's memories-- still haunted her.  "Where were you?"

The Witness cocked his head, studying her.  His expression was guarded.  After a moment, he shrugged minutely.  "Unconscious, mostly."  Then he looked away.

"What happened?"  The Professor leaned forward in his hoverchair.

The Witness stood abruptly, his cloak swirling about his legs.  He walked over to the bay windows that lined one wall of the large living room and stood staring out at the grounds.  "I'm going t' have t' start wit a little general information about time theory."  He turned to face the room, and the X-Men assembled there.  He nodded to Hank.  "Jump in whenever, Hank.  Dis all based on your work."

Hank's eyebrows rose in interest.  "My work?  I have done some theorizing on the subject, but I would hesitate to go so far as to call it work."

Another miniscule shrug.  "Den it's still in de future.  I never found a date on de journals."

"My... personal journals?"  Hank seemed nonplussed.

The Witness' mouth hinted at a smile.  "Y' _were_ dead, Hank."

Hank sat back, frowning.  "I suppose that's true enough.  But I still find the idea a bit unnerving."

The Witness turned his attention to the X-Men at large.  "You're already aware o' how easily de timeline can be changed."  Several nods followed the statement.  "Each change causes a new permutation.  Generally, dese changes in de timeline are localized to one t'ing-- an event, a person, or, in de case o' de X-Men, a group o' people.  Dat's called de focus."  

He nodded toward Forge.  "As far as we know, dere have been five permutations in de timeline wit de X-Men as de focus.  In de original line, de X-Men were betrayed and killed just like you saw, except dat I was dere and ended up dead, too."  

The Professor opened his mouth to speak, but the Witness held up a hand, forestalling him.  "Dat's what would have happened if not'ing had interfered.  Den dose events would have led t' de future dat Rachel came from."

Jean's head snapped up.  "Rachel?  The Rachel we knew?"  She gestured toward Scott.

The Witness nodded.  "Oui.  De one who was a Hound an' den went forward in time t' become Mother Askani."

Scott and Jean both stared at him.  "How do you know... ?" Scott began.

"Dat she was de one founded de clan Askani?"  He smiled lightly.  "Combine telepathy wit de ability t' travel in time an' eventually y' know jus' about everyt'ing."

Jean's eyes widened slightly.  "I see."

Scott opened his mouth and then abruptly shut it.  The Witness eyed him, his expression thoroughly amused.  

"Did y' decide t' spare me de lecture on moral responsibility?" he asked.

Scott's lips thinned.  "Something like that," he answered stiffly.

After a brief moment, the Witness mastered his amusement and went on.  "De... event, f' lack of a better term...  dat kept me from bein' killed wit de rest o' de X-Men created a second permutation.  I get t' de details o' what happened in a bit.  If not'ing had interfered in de timeline, it would have led to de future Bishop, myself and Forge come from.  And, eventually, to de future Cable grew up in."

"Bishop's arrival here created de third permutation.  I never looked into de far future o' dat one because no one ever came back from dere.  An' I knew Legion was goin' t' change it all anyway."

The Professor stiffened.  "Legion?"

"Legion's trip back in time is somet'ing of a constant.  It crops up in almost every timeline."

Hank was nodding in understanding.  "Then the fourth permutation would be the Age of Apocalypse, correct?"

"Oui.  An' since dat one was cut off back at de beginning, it didn' have much effect on de long term.  However, since dere _were_ some carryovers-- like Beast's double-- we have de fifth permutation, which is where we are now."

"I have a question."  Bishop stood toward the back of the room, arms crossed.  "The Age of Apocalypse existed because Professor Xavier was killed twenty years in the past.  How could Gambit possibly have existed in that timeline?"  He glanced toward Remy.  "He _was_ there.  I saw him."

Remy was taken aback by the almost accusing stare.  But he had to admit Bishop had a good point, and he was curious, too.

The Witness seemed suddenly weary.  "Dat has t' do wit de nature of paradox," he answered.  "De physical laws dat govern time don' seem t' care if someone jus' suddenly appears from another time or dimension.  De timeline jus' accepts dem an' goes on wit its business.  De problems only occur when dat person is wit'in dere original time.  In de case o' de Age of Apocalypse, it would seem logical dat I couldn' exist since my father was killed some thirty years b'fore I was born.  But, because I was outside o' my original time, de timeline didn' care about dat.  So y' have Gambit in de Age of Apocalypse.  

"Now, if dat timeline had been allowed to continue-- an' if dey hadn' blown up de world-- eventually, we would have gotten t' de day I was born.  Which is impossible since de professor was long dead, o' course.  An' since it _is_ de first day o' my original time, de paradox becomes a problem an' collapses.

"De collapse would probably be complete, meanin' dat de effects would be felt both forward and back.  My existence would effectively have been erased, an' de timeline would have changed t' cope wit having all of my actions undone. When it all settled, not only would Gambit not have ever existed, no one in de timeline would even be aware dat t'ings had been different once."

Remy felt a cold stab as the Witness spoke.  The idea of being _erased_ was scary.

Bishop considered the Witness' words for a while, his expression clouded.  Finally, he turned back.  "Then the same thing will happen to me, once time goes forward to the day I was born.  So what was the point of sending me here, if paradox will erase everything?"

"First of all," the Witness answered, "for you t' be erased, y' birth has t' be wiped out by somet'ing dat occurs in dis permutation.  I've done what I can t' make sure dat don' happen.  Dere still may be some small paradoxes, but dey usually don' collapse.  Only de big ones do."

"Fascinating."  Hank pushed his glasses back up on his nose.  "Absolutely fascinating."  He glanced at Remy and then back at the Witness.  "However this does lead me to the rather ominous question of what--" He paused as the Witness held up a hand.

"Not yet, Hank."

Hank's expression was at first surprised, but after a moment that faded and was replaced by something indefinably sad.  "I understand," he said.  He seemed to withdraw into himself, sinking back into the couch.  He crossed his arms and laid his chin on his chest.  For all Remy could tell, he was no longer paying any attention to the conversation.

Remy glanced at the Professor to see if he had any idea what they were talking about, but the Professor was staring at the top of his hoverchair, brow drawn.  Remy wasn't sure what he might be thinking.  But then he looked up, and his expression was very troubled.

"Please, finish what you came here to say."  He motioned for the Witness to continue then steepled his hands before him.  It was obvious to Remy that, whatever the big secret was, both Hank and the Professor had figured it out and neither one was happy about it.  Dread filled him.  Whatever it was, it had to do with him.  He tightened his grip on Rogue's hand and felt her squeeze back, but it was little comfort.  He had the horrible feeling that the world was about to come apart again.

The Witness took a deep breath, as if even he needed to prepare for what he was going to say.  "I did leave de house de morning before de X-Men were killed.  It was routine-- I don' even remember what, now.  I was plannin' t' be home f' dinner."  He stared directly at Rogue.  "Only, six guys wit stunners an' gas grenades jumped me.  I was out 'til well after de X-Men died.  Didn' know dat at first, o' course."  Only the tightening around his eyes betrayed his pain at the memories.  His voice remained even.

"De Gamemaster was waitin' f' me when I woke up.  He said--" The Witness looked up to the ceiling for a moment as if gathering strength.  "He said 'De X-Men are dead, an' I have a challenge for you.'  I didn' believe him.  De X-Men always manage to survive, right?  Anyway, de Gamemaster's supposed t' be omniscient, so he knew about de betrayal ahead o' time.  I guess he t'ought it was too ironic dat de same t'ing dat sent me back in time and made me who I am, also ended up killing me.  So he offered me my life, an' a chance to save de X-Men.  De only catches were dat de X-Men already dead, an' dat I couldn' do anyt'ing _direct_ t' save dem because it would cause a paradox which would undo anyt'ing I did.  De Gamemaster gave me a set o' rules to avoid de paradox-- turned it into a kind o' gamble.  If I won, he agreed t' use his power t' protect de X-Men."  The Witness turned to Professor Xavier.  "So don' be shocked if he shows up every so often t' warn y' 'bout somet'ing.

"If he won, he would have de satisfaction o' provin' dat even Charles Xavier's son was unworthy o' facin' de High Lord Ascension."

Scott straightened in surprise, and the Witness turned to him.  "Very different from your test, eh Scott?"

Scott nodded, his expression troubled.  "Yes."  

The Witness returned his attention to the room at large.  "After dat, dey jus' disappeared, an' I walked.  I really t'ought it was some sick joke... 'til I got home."  He looked away and closed his eyes.  "Dieu."

Forge stood up.  "Leave it, Remy.  They know what happened."  His expression was sympathetic.

The Witness gathered himself.  "Not everything," he said.  Then he turned to Remy.

"De game was rigged from de beginning," he said, and the cold in Remy's stomach turned to ice.  "Dere's no way for me to win."

"But, de X-Men are going t' live now, right?"  Remy felt like he was holding his breath.

"Oui."  He smiled bitterly.  "So officially, I win.  But dat's not how it works."  He pulled his cloak more tightly about him.  "Follow de logic:  Because o' what you know now, de X-Men won' allow Colossus t' betray dem.  An' if he don' do dat, he won' try t' kill you."

Remy stared at the Witness in stunned silence as understanding hit him.  If the X-Men weren't betrayed, then Colossus would never try to kill Remy, which would in turn mean that his powers wouldn't be awakened then, and he wouldn't transport himself back to New Orleans thirty years in the past.  He would never grow up on the streets of New Orleans or be taken in by the Thieves guild.  In short, there would never be a Remy LeBeau-- never be a Gambit.

"You said dis would cost me my life."  It came out as a choked whisper.

The Witness' face was completely expressionless.  "So I did."

"But I'm still here now?"  Remy couldn't help but glance down at himself to make sure that was, indeed, the case.

The Witness nodded.  "Remember, paradox only occurs in y' original timeline.  De X-Men would have been betrayed about ten years from now.  Dat's when de paradox will collapse."

Remy could only stare at him.  He was going to die in ten years.  No, worse than that-- he was going to be erased.  Everything he had been, everything he had done, would be gone.  And no one would ever know that he had been there.  Not his guild, not the X-Men... not even Rogue.

"Nooooo!"  The cry echoed the pain in his heart, but it was Rogue who voiced it.  She leapt to her feet, fists balled.  She crossed the distance to the Witness in three steps, and slapped him, hard.  "Why?" she demanded hoarsely.

Anger and confusion flared in the Witness' eyes.  Gingerly, he touched the blood that welled at the corner of his mouth.  "Why what?"

Rogue's next breath was a sob.  She wrapped both arms about her waist, and knotted her hands in the fabric of her shirt.  Her soul was in her eyes, wounded and bleeding.  "Why did ya teach me ta love, if ya knew it could only break mah heart?"

Remy felt the knife stab in his heart, saw it reflected on the Witness' face.  It was just too much.  All of his dreams were shattered, and the hope he had clung to so grimly was useless.  With a wordless cry, he ran out of the room.  He kept running, heedless of where his feet took him.  The pain in his heart weighed heavily, seeming to draw him further and further down into the lower levels of the house.  His footsteps echoed mockingly in the empty halls.

#

Warren Worthington rested one hand lightly on the danger room controls, debating whether to adjust them.  The control room windows were darkened, making him invisible to the man below.  Not that he was likely to notice anyway, considering the level the danger room was running at.  Warren continued to watch, and continued to debate with himself.  He was concerned-- there was no argument there.  He just wasn't sure he had any right to interfere.  Or any responsibility.

Finally, he hit the intercom button and told Cerebro who he wanted to talk to.  The Professor's com badge beeped several times before it was answered.

"Professor," Warren said, "would you come down to the control room?"

"What is it?"  The professor's voice was strained.

Warren took a deep breath, hoping he had made the right choice.  "It's Gambit."

The com link shut down immediately.  Warren might have smiled under different circumstances.  Today, any mention of Gambit was enough to bring the Professor running.  Not that that was surprising.  After he'd run out, Gambit had flat disappeared for nearly twenty-four hours.  Though Bishop and Wolverine were fairly sure he hadn't left the grounds, Cerebro hadn't been able to locate him.  As far as he knew, Warren was the first person to have seen the Cajun since then.

The door behind Warren slid aside. The Professor moved into the room, the hum of his hoverchair louder than usual.  Warren suspected he had been pushing it rather hard to get down there so quickly.  He spent a moment wondering what the chair's top speed might be then pushed the thought aside.  There were more important things to worry about.

Charles looked out into the danger room and breathed a sigh of relief.  "At least he's all right."  

Giant gouts of flame rolled toward the danger room ceiling, briefly obscuring Charles' reflection in the darkened glass.  The sound from the explosions was like miniature thunder, and the floor beneath them vibrated in time.  The danger room was filled with assault robots that dove and maneuvered around the lone X-Man.  Gambit fairly glowed, his power dripping from him like lurid streamers.  He leapt and turned in the midst of the chaos, with the bright streaks of charged objects flying out from him at regular intervals.  The huge explosions nearly buried him in flames, but he always emerged again, seemingly unaffected.  Warren knew from experience that Gambit was pushing his powers hard, something he rarely did because he could be as deadly to friends as enemies that way.

"Take a look at the counter, Professor," Warren said.

Charles did as he was asked, and his expression went from relief to alarm.  Warren nodded.  "That's why I called you."  The counter read just under six hours.  "He's got all of the safeties off.  I didn't want to interfere, but he's got to be getting tired.  If he makes a mistake, the room will kill him."

Charles closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind.  Warren watched in concern.  This could very well be enough to cause that mistake.  Gambit didn't react well to telepathic contact at the best of times.  But he was reassured when Charles opened his eyes again after only a moment.

"Leave the safeties off."  He looked suddenly old and drawn.  "Just be ready to shut the room down instantly."

Warren nodded.  He already had the controls set for that.  "Is he all right?" he asked after a moment.

Charles sighed.  "Not really.  But how would you react?"

Warren shrugged.  "I don't know."  He was silent for a moment as the things he had been turning over in his mind for the past hour coalesced.  "He'll manage, Professor.  Don't worry."  Charles turned to him, a questioning look on his face.  Warren smiled.  "Remy survives everything."

"I just hope this isn't the straw that broke the camel's back."  Charles went back to watching the war taking place in the danger room.  It wasn't a war between man and robots, but between one man's heart and his will.  The first wanted to die, the other refused to give up.

"You know, it's strange."  Warren stared at the billowing flames.  "I used to look down on Gambit.  I always thought he was a loser-- " He didn't dare look at the Professor for fear of his reaction.  "Like he could have done something with himself if he'd tried."  The heat in his face had nothing to do with the fires below them.  "Now, I don't think I could have done as much."

"Remy has proven himself to everyone, I think."  Charles caught his breath as Gambit stumbled.  Two of the targeting drones locked onto him in that instant.  Warren's hand was halfway to the emergency kill button before Remy managed to dive out of the way of the laser beams that scored the metal floor where he'd just been.

Something changed in the Professor's face.  He turned his hoverchair around.  "I have to go," he said quietly.  "Call me if anything changes."  He didn't look at Warren as he left the room.

Warren stared after him in stunned silence.  He didn't want to believe that Charles had just walked out on the one person who needed him more than any other.  Frightened and worried, he turned his attention back to the danger room.  At least Warren could make sure Remy didn't kill himself while he was watching.

#

Remy gritted his teeth and threw the charged scrap of metal in his hands.  The release of power felt like acid being poured down his arm.  He didn't care.  In fact, he welcomed the pain because it helped drown out the other pain, the one he had no cure for.  He cleared the sweat from his eyes with a quick shake of his head, and picked up some more scrap metal.  The robots swarmed around him like bees, but his mutant power kept them all separate.  One turned for a strafing run. Remy leapt out of the way.  He landed neatly, but the impact made his ankles scream.  He was pushing his body to its limits, he knew.  Eventually, he wouldn't be able to move fast enough.  He hadn't yet decided if that was a bad thing.

Most of the past twenty-four hours was a blur.  For a while he had reverted to the most basic thing he knew-- hiding.  He knew the places in the house where even Cerebro couldn't find him, and he was telepath enough to make himself invisible that way, too.  But skulking through the shadows of the lower levels had left him with time to think, which was not good.  The more he had considered his situation, the angrier he'd become.  Eventually, helpless rage drowned out rationality, leaving him with only the desperate desire to lash out and inflict some kind of pain on the agents that had brought this on him.  Only the memory of Tanya's screams kept him from destroying the heavy supports and bringing the entire house down with everyone in it.  

Instead, he had gone to the only place he could think of that might be safe.  There he spent his fury on assault drones and let the reinforced adamantium alloy walls absorb every ounce of power he could throw at them.

Exhaustion made his muscles burn, slowed his reflexes.  He stumbled, and the two drones that were currently engaged locked on.  Instinct took over, dragging him out of the way before he could consciously command his body to move.  Remy had worked hard to hone those survival instincts, and they'd kept him alive many times.  Now he cursed them.  It would be so much easier to let the drones hit him.  At least it would end the pain.

Then he cursed himself for being such a coward.  But another part of him answered, _Who cares?.  _He didn't really exist anyway.  What would it matter what he did or how he died?  In the end, no one would ever know the difference.  After everything he'd done to survive, every struggle to keep going, to keep believing that he _could_ build a life he could be proud of, and after finally, finally doing it-- it was all going to come to nothing.

Remy lost his balance, fell to his knees.  The active drones had just finished a run and were beginning to turn back for another.  His mind commanded his body to move, but there was no response.  He didn't have the strength left to climb back to his feet.  Time slowed.  The drones completed their turn, began to accelerate.  Remy knew he could kill the danger room program with a single command.  He watched them approach and wondered what he should do.

#

Warren saw Remy fall and his heart skipped a beat.  His hand hovered over the kill button, but he hesitated.  Remy could shut the program down with a spoken command from inside the danger room.  He watched as the drones turned and began their firing run.  His fingers flexed convulsively.

"Come _on_, Remy," he muttered softly.  "Shut it down."  He knew he only had a second more to react, but he didn't want to have to.  If he did shut down the program, it would confirm something he didn't want to be true.

"Emergency kill!"  It was hardly more than a whisper from the kneeling man, but the drones immediately veered away, the undamaged ones returning to their cubbies.  The damaged ones settled to the floor like a flight of ungainly birds.  

Warren breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes briefly.  When he opened them again, Remy had fallen forward so that his fists rested on the floor and his hair hung down around his face.  Sweat dripped from the tips, pooled on the floor.  Warren took the opportunity to lock down the danger room so Remy couldn't change his mind and start the program up again.  He'd have to come up to the control booth to get the room running.  Then he hit the intercom.

"Hey Scott, it's Warren."

"What is it, Warren?"

"Where are you?"

There was a hint of concern in Scott's voice.  "At home.  Why?"

"Is anyone else there?"

"Only Jean."

Warren nodded to himself.  "Good enough."  Briefly he described what had happened, concluding with, "I think we need to make sure someone keeps an eye on him, just in case."

Silence answered him, then Scott said, "I think you're right.  We'll take care of it."

"And Warren?"  That was Jean.

"What?"

"Thanks."

Warren smiled at the warmth in her voice.  "Sure, Jean.  Since I'm already here, I'll just stick with him while you get things going."

She didn't say anything, but he could feel her smile.  Warren shut down the connection and looked back down at Gambit, who hadn't yet moved.  A rumble announced the opening of the danger room door.  Warren craned his neck to see and was suitably shocked by who stood in the doorway.

#

Remy heard the door open, but didn't bother to turn his head.  He was too tired to care.  Still, that didn't affect his mutant power. A small corner of his brain catalogued the motion of the person who approached.  The walk was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.  The footsteps drew closer, stopped beside him.   Whoever it was then knelt beside him, and Remy glimpsed a knee, clad in some kind of black armor.  He recognized it after a moment, and was startled enough to turn his head.  Charles watched him silently.  Remy looked back at the floor, oddly touched.  The Professor hadn't worn the telepathically controlled power armor after he'd gone to Avalon.  It brought him too many bad memories, too much regret for what he'd been forced to do to Magneto there.

Remy felt Charles' hand light on the back of his neck.  It was a comforting gesture. Remy closed his eyes.

"How do you feel, Remy?" he asked.

Remy considered the question, and finally answered with the honest truth.  "I want my life back," he whispered.  Bitterness threatened to choke him.

He was startled to feel the Professor's arms slide around him, drawing him into a tight hug.  Remy wanted to cry.  

"We'll find a way," Charles said softly.

"How?"  The last spark of hope flared in Remy.   If he could trust anyone, depend on anyone, it was this man.

"I don't know."  The arms tightened and he imagined a smile.  "But this is the X-men, remember?  Anything can happen here.  Come on."  Charles urged him to his feet.  Remy complied, but leaned heavily on the supporting arms.

"Where are we going?"

"The jacuzzi."

This time Remy had to look at him.  Charles was, indeed, smiling.  "Why?"

"Because if you don't spend some time soaking, by tomorrow I won't be the only one in the house who can't walk."

Remy could only stare at him.  He didn't have the energy to resist as Charles led him out of the danger room.


	24. [24]

Chapter 24

Bishop sat in the continuous drizzle and contemplated the ants that trekked industriously past the toe of his boot.  It was useless for him to search any longer.  If Gambit had left the grounds he was long gone, and if he was still there he didn't want to be found.  Bishop didn't know what to think about any of it.  He was worried for a man he had-- secretly-- begun to think of as a friend.  In his own way, Gambit had always been very kind to him, as if he understood how out-of-place Bishop felt.  He probably did understand.  Perfectly.

A rustle of leaves alerted him to another's approach.  He looked up to find the Witness walking toward him.  The Witness stopped when he was near and looked around at the small glade.

"T'ought y' might like trees, once y' got used t' dem."

"Yeah."  In his own time, trees had made Bishop nervous.  They had always seemed so alien.

The Witness was still studying the surroundings.  The mansion was just visible through the foliage.  He took a deep breath, savoring the clean air.

"I'd forgotten what dis place like," he commented softly.

Bishop watched him for a moment, then "Do you know where Gambit went?" he asked.

The Witness shook his head.  "None o' dis happened t' me."

"So how did you find out...?"

"Who I am?"  The Witness skewered him with a sharp stare.  "I remembered."  His gaze grew distant.  "I walked through dat house an' I knew I'd seen it b'fore.  I had nightmares f' months.  Eventually it all came back.  Dat's when I stared t' figure out why de Gamemaster was doin' dis t' me."

Bishop looked back down at the ants.  "I'm sorry," he finally said.

"F' what?"

Bishop didn't look up.  "For not... believing... in you.  For thinking you were a monster."  He looked up then, but the Witness' expression was not one he could identify.

The elegant eyebrows twitched.  "Oh, you were right, pup," the Witness said quietly. His voice was chilling.  "I am a monster."  He turned back toward the distant mansion.  

Bishop looked at him questioningly, and he continued, "Some o' de t'ings I've done t' make sure today happened are... unforgivable."  The lines of his face were hard and cold.  Bishop felt like he was staring at a living skeleton.  There was nothing soft, nothing _human_ about him.

Bishop realized something in that instant.  He had long suspected the Witness had done horrible things-- things even Gambit would not conceive of-- and now that suspicion was confirmed.  And yet, he had chosen that path deliberately, sacrificing even his conscience to bring the X-Men back to life.  Now, Bishop wondered, if there were such a thing as Judgment, how would the Witness be weighed?

Finally, he stood and walked over to the Witness, coming up beside him.  "Maybe so," he agreed.  "Cyclops likes to talk about the ends not justifying the means."  The Witness glanced sidelong at him, and Bishop continued, "I never have believed that."

He was rewarded with the tiniest of nods, a gesture of gratitude.  "You make a good X-Man, pup."

Bishop stared at the mansion and considered his life.  "You made me an X-Man, Father," he replied quietly.  

#

Jean accepted the glass Hank handed her and sat down at the kitchen table with a tired sigh.  She was far more weary than she ought to be, she thought.  The high tensions in the house wore away at her mind like the wind pulling snow off the top of a drift.  There were times she regretted her power, and these past months had certainly become one of them.  Still, how could she truly regret?  The truth they had discovered would save all of their lives-- all except one.  That was the thing that left her feeling so worn.

"Jean?"  Scott stood in the doorway.  "Where's Gambit?"  She had taken up the watch after Warren.

Jean swallowed a mouthful of lemonade.  "The roof."

"The _roof_!"

"Yes.  He's fine, Scott."  She pulled out one of the empty chairs.  "Here, have a seat."

Scott walked over to the proffered chair and put his hands on the back.  "You're sure?"

Slightly exasperated, she answered, "Of course.  He'd hardly hurt himself if he jumped off the roof anyway.  Unless he did a swan dive and managed to break his neck, but that's definitely not Remy's style."  She smiled at him.  "Relax, o.k.?"  She tapped her temple.  "I've got him."

Scott sighed and sat down.

"Lemonade?"   Hank asked.

Scott shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.  "Where's Rogue?"

Jean and Hank both shrugged.  "She was asleep on the couch in the den, the last time I saw her," Hank answered.

 "I haven't even had a chance to talk to her.  How is she taking this?"

Jean set her glass back on the table.  "Oh, she threw a small tantrum at first, but now that Remy's shown up again, she seems to be all right.  I don't think they've spoken to each other yet, though."

"I hate to say it, but I think I'd be grateful for some kind of normal crisis right about now."  Scott made a sweeping gesture.  "Rampaging mutants, Friends of Humanity.  Anything."

"I couldn't agree more."  Hank rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and leaned back in his chair.  His gaze was more thoughtful than usual.  "And yet, after spending some time conversing with the Witness, I, too, am convinced of the necessity of everything that has happened here."

Scott and Jean exchanged glances, and Hank continued, "Apparently, the existence of the X-Men is a kind of lynchpin in the course of humanity.  For whatever reason, it seems to always be true that if the X-Men exist, mutants and humans coexist in tense but fairly peaceful accord.  If the X-Men do not exist, the planet dissolves into chaos, with either humans or mutants becoming a master race to the other."  His lips quirked ruefully.

"I do not want to buy peace-- even relative peace-- with the life of a friend, but that seems to be the only option."  He rapped one claw lightly against his glass.  "I am just grateful it was not my choice to make."

#

Remy sat and watched the rain.  He was soaked to the bone but had long since ceased to care.  The roof was the only place where he felt both alone and free.  The rooftops had always meant safety for him, and so this was where he came when he needed to think, and to let his guard down for a little while.

A soft rush of air was his only warning as Rogue settled onto the shingles beside him.  She must have been drifting with the breeze-- his mutant power hadn't picked her up.  She was wearing her colors. The leather jacket was already darkening in the rain.  She said nothing, only sat down beside him and tucked her arms beneath her drawn up knees.  She, too, stared out at the grounds.

"Ah want children, Remy," she said after a moment.  Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead.

Remy bit his lip.  It hurt, but not as much as he had expected.  He was still numb inside.  It was only reasonable for her to want a real life, a real relationship-- something that could last.  If she stayed with him, she could only be wasting the years on something that would never be.

"You'll find someone, chere," he managed through the tightness in his throat.

Rogue glanced briefly at him.  "Idiot.  Ah meant us.  You an' me."  Her inflection didn't change.  "Ah want children, Remy."

Remy tightened his arms around his knees.  "What would be de point, chere?  Dey'd never get t' grow up."

"Probably."  Rogue turned her head toward him and laid her cheek against her knee.  "But we've got ten years.  Ah'm not ready t' give up yet."

Remy eyed her for a moment then looked away.  "Dat's crazy."

"No it isn't."  Anger sparkled in her eyes.  She straightened and looked directly at him.  "Right now ah have everythin' ah evah wanted.  Everythin' ah've dreamed of since ah was a lil' girl.  Ah'll take ten years, if that's all ah c'n have."

Remy didn't know how to respond.  He wanted to believe her-- he did believe that she was sincere.  But she wasn't seeing the whole picture.

Before he could say anything, though, Rogue went on.  "Besides, neither one a us can guarantee we're gonna live through tomorrow, let alone the next ten years."

Remy shook his head.  "Oui, chere.  But when I'm gone, everyt'ing be gone.  Includin' dose chillen y' want.  Y' won' even remember me."

Rogue was silent for several moments.  She picked at a loose thread in her glove.  "Beast says there's a chance-- a small one-- that the paradox won't collapse completely."  She stared at her hands as if they had suddenly taken on a life of their own.  "Ah might remember ya."

"Y' bein' foolish, girl."  Remy went back to staring at the rain.

"Then y'all are just going ta give up?"  The anger was back in her voice.

"I don' know what I'm gon' do," he answered truthfully.

Rogue stood.  "Well, ah know what _ah'm_ gonna do."  She stretched with feline grace, turning her face up to the rain.  "Ah'm going ta become a thief."

"What?"  Remy's head jerked up.

Rogue dropped to a crouch beside him.  There was a challenging glint in her eyes.  "If ya want ta think that this is fate's way a doling ya out a proper punishment fo' what ya did ta Tanya an' those others, fine.  Ya can sit up here an' let the rest a ya life rot away."  She stood once again.  "But ah ain't going ta let life cheat me outta mah dreams.  An' whatevah life don't feel like givin' up, ah'm goin' ta take."  She glanced back down at him.  "A thief ah once knew taught me 'bout that."  With a small toss of her head, she rose into the air.

"Rogue, wait!"  Remy grabbed after her, and succeeded in catching her ankle.  He was so stiff from sitting for several hours after his little danger room exercise that he nearly fell in the process.  But he couldn't let her go.  Not when she was so right.

Rogue settled quickly back to the rooftop, smiling as she helped to steady him.  Remy found himself with Rogue's waist tucked neatly into his arms as if it had always belonged there.  Maybe that was truer than he knew.

"Is dis really what y' wan'?" he asked her.

Her eyes were deep and green and steady.  "Yes."

Remy pulled her close and hugged her tightly, dizzy with relief.  "Dis still crazy, girl," he said into her hair.

She leaned back to look at him.  "We can do a lot a livin' in ten years, sugar."

"An' den?"

Rogue shrugged.  "And then... well, ah'll probably never know what ah lost."  There was no compromise in her gaze.

It was strange, Remy reflected.  Rogue had been mocking him, but what she said made sense.  Maybe this _was_ fate's way of punishing him.  It was certainly fitting.  He breathed deeply of the cool air and stared into Rogue's eyes.  Ten years.  So be it.  He would just have to savor what he had for as long as it lasted.  

Silently, he promised himself that fate would not regret giving him those ten years.


	25. [25]

Chapter 25

Ororo Munroe heard the knock on her loft door, but didn't turn around.  She didn't much feel like having company.

"I know this isn't the best time, Windrider--"  Ororo turned in surprise to find Forge standing in the doorway.  She stood, staring at him in silence.  She had no idea what to say.  She and the current version of the man facing her had only recently parted ways, more from his desire than hers.  There were very few she would admit her pain at that parting to, and, as yet, she had spoken to none of them.

"Come in, Maker," she managed.  As he crossed the distance to her, she tried to steady herself.

"Hello, Ororo," he said when they were face to face.  He seemed glad to see her.

"Forge."  She was surprised at the frost in her heart.  And surprised at herself for not being able to separate this Forge from the other one.  She decided to be direct.  "What do you want?"

His face reflected dismay at the less-than-friendly reception.  "Only to see an old friend, Ro.  I take it you're angry with me?"

The quiet question stung because Ororo knew she was being unreasonable.  "Not.... with you.  I am sorry."

His expression softened into a smile.  "Ah.  I suppose it _would_ be difficult.  But, if it makes you feel better--"

"No."  Ororo stared directly into his eyes.  "I do not want to know the future."

Forge pursed his lips.  "O.k."  After a moment, Ororo looked away and he frowned.  "Maybe this was a bad idea," he suggested.

Her head snapped up, blue cat's eyes centering on him.  "No, I... would like you to stay."  Her smile was thin, but she made a welcoming gesture and led him toward the short bench that gave an excellent view of her plants.  Beyond them, rain pattered on the skylights in a monotonous song.

Ororo folded her hands in her lap as Forge settled beside her.  She said a quick prayer to the Goddess for patience and an open mind.

"Have you talked to Remy yet?" he asked conversationally.

"Which one?"

Forge smiled.  "Either."

Ororo shook her head.  She hadn't been able to summon the heart to face him, in any guise.  Her sadness unrelieved, she stared at the rain on the skylights.  After a moment, the fall intensified.

Forge reached over and took her hand.  "This was his choice, Ro."

Ororo savored the warmth of his fingers around hers.  Simple human contact was such a precious thing, so hard for her to ask for or give.

"You are good friends?" she asked.

"For more than fifty years.  I'm probably the only real friend he has."  He shrugged lightly.  "He didn't exactly pick an easy life."

Ororo stared at her memories.  "Thank you," she said at last.

"For what?"

Ororo looked up at him.  "For being his friend when I could not."

#

Morning brought an odd peace to the mansion.  Everyone gathered for breakfast-- and to Charles' surprise, seemed to be enjoying themselves.  Even the Witness had a casual air about him, a calmness that came naturally instead of as the result of strict discipline.  Stranger still, it was Remy who most encouraged the happy mood.  He was all smiles and had managed to flirt with all four of the women with only minor complaints from the various significant others, including his own.  It seemed for all the world as if the storm had finally broken-- the crisis passed-- and Remy was ready to live again.

Charles leaned back in his hoverchair, content to watch his family.  And that is what they were, now more than ever.  At the far end of the table, Hank was spinning out his latest shaggy dog story.  It had become a kind of tradition for Hank to collect the stupidest stories available and relay them to his captive audience.  Jean leaned on her husband's shoulder, breakfast neglected as she listened.  Her expression was full of amused anticipation and a certain gleeful innocence that made Charles suspect she was plotting something.  Scott was oblivious, sipping his coffee and watching Hank.  But he, too, was smiling.

Bobby sat beside Hank.  His coffee, now frozen, climbed out of the cup in an intricate sculpture that changed as Hank's story progressed.  Charles was pleased.  Bobby was showing more and more ability.  The coffee sculpture was a minor use of his power, but it flowed from shape to shape flawlessly.

Forge dominated the middle of the table.  He seemed to have an unlimited number of anecdotes from the mutant-human war.  He had even managed to drag a short tale out of the Witness.  Warren and Psylocke, with Logan, sat directly across from them.  Many of the stories were sad-- but it was still somehow satisfying to hear about the deaths of friends, knowing it would not happen that way.

Remy, Rogue, Ororo and Bishop surrounded Charles at the head of the table.  Remy was chiding Storm about the abysmal weather, which she accepted with her usual silence.  Still, Charles could tell that she, of all of those gathered, had not yet accepted the inevitable.

"Y' will give us some sunshine today, eh, Stormy?" Remy asked with a smile.

Ororo swallowed convulsively.  In a tight voice, she said, "I have told you before, Remy-- do not call me that."

Remy shrugged.  "You get y' wish eventually, chere."

"No!"  Thunder crashed outside the house with enough force to rattle the dishes.  All conversation died.  "Do not say that!"  She had risen to her feet and now stared at Remy.  Anger darkened her expression.

Remy pretended not to notice, despite the roar from the sudden deluge outside.  "Why not?  It's true."

Only Ororo's eyes betrayed her conflict.  Her face remained still.  "I do not..."  She closed her eyes then reopened them.  "I cannot... believe that.  The Bright Lady could not be so cruel."

Charles saw Rogue draw in her breath and look to Remy, sudden fear in her face.  But Remy's stance remained easy, his smile gentle and genuine.  He reached across the table to take Ororo's hand.

"Your Bright Lady, she loves balance, neh?"

Ororo nodded jerkily.  "She holds all living things in balance, one with another."  Her eyes had begun to shine with tears, and she shook her head in vehement denial.  "This is not balance!"

"What would a court say?"

Ororo's expression dipped in confusion at the sudden change in the conversation.  "A court?"

"Oui, chere.  A judge and jury.  If dey put me on trial for what I done, what would dey say?"

Ororo simply stared at him, mouth working silently.  Remy sat still, waiting.  Rogue leaned back in her chair, hands covering her mouth, as if she had only just realized what had caused his sudden turnaround.

When Ororo didn't speak, Remy answered for her.  "Dey'd give me de death penalty, chere.  You know dat, an' so do I."

"No."  But the protest was weak.  Ororo sank slowly into her chair.  "Do not do this, Remy," she whispered.

Remy's eyes narrowed as he stared intently into Ororo's eyes.  He had no illusions.  "It's already done, chere."  He paused then added in a softer tone, "An' it's only fair.  More dan fair, actually."  He sat back in his chair, his usual, charming smile appearing as if by magic.  "I get ten years o' de kind o' life I only dreamed 'bout, before I have t' pay de piper.  Dere's no use cryin' over t'ings dat can't be changed, chere."

He leaned forward and took her hand up in both of his.  "Bring out de sun, Stormy."

She stared at him in silence.  A single tear traced a path down her cheek, but the rain outside began to fade.  "I will," she promised.

#

Remy stared at the Witness, at a loss for words.  Only a few minutes remained before the machine in the Witness' time would reclaim the two travelers.  He felt like he ought to say something, but didn't have the slightest idea what.  What did you say to a version of yourself that would never be?  

Finally, Remy offered his hand.  The Witness' expression twitched in surprise, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face.  With only the slightest hesitation, he took the proffered hand.  His grip was firm and surprisingly strong.  Then he clasped his other hand over Remy's as well and patted it.  He seemed suddenly... grandfatherly.  Remy had a brief glimpse of the man he might have aged into if time hadn't had other plans for him.

In that moment, he realized what he needed to say.

"Thank you."

The Witness' eyes clouded. He pressed his lips together as he fought with his emotions.  It was a phrase that Remy himself had heard precious little of.  He could only image how the Witness might feel after so many years.  That was why he had to say it.  

Rogue stepped up beside Remy.  She canted her head playfully and looked up at him out of the corner of her eyes.  "Mind if ah say goodbye, sugah?"

Remy and the Witness shared a knowing look. Remy stepped back.  He felt an amazing sense of kindred with the Witness now.  It wasn't exactly family... Remy wasn't sure how to describe it.  They understood each other on a level most people couldn't imagine.  So he was pleased in a sense when Rogue reached up, wrapped her arms around the Witness' neck and kissed him soundly.  There was a muffled "Oh my" from someone in the gathered group, and Remy's smile widened.  Rogue was nothing if not expressive.

The Witness held on to her after their kiss ended.  Rogue seemed content to prolong the embrace.  She laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes, opening them only once to smile at Remy before closing them again.  The Witness held tightly to her as if soaking up as much of her from that brief contact as he could.  After a little while he straightened and Rogue stepped back.  Though she did not look away from the Witness, she reached behind her until Remy took her outstretched hand and folded her fingers into his.

Bishop took Rogue's place.  He and the Witness faced each other uncertainly.  Then the Witness reached out and put his hand on his son's shoulder.

"I could never say dis before," the Witness said quietly, "but I love you."

Bishop's expression was as unreadable as always.  "I know," he answered. His gaze was clear.

For just a moment, the Witness' face split into a devilish grin.  Remy was shocked to suddenly see himself so clearly.  The Witness turned that smile on Remy.

"I'm givin' _you_ de responsibility o' findin' my son a girlfriend, hear?"

Bishop's expression went apoplectic. Remy bust out laughing.  So did the other X-Men, until Bishop began to growl dire threats under his breath.

"Oh, oui," Remy managed through his laughter, "I can' wait."

"I'll be glad ta help, Gumbo," added Wolverine.  He stood with his arms crossed, a dangerously gleeful grin on his face.

Remy snorted.  "You?  What you know 'bout women?"

There were a couple of sharp intakes as Logan uncrossed his arms and gave Remy a fierce scowl.  Remy wasn't concerned.  There was nothing but playfulness in Logan's eyes.

"Keep that up, boy, an' I'll take Rogue to the Princess bar in Madripoor," he said.

_Ouch_, Remy thought.  "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Rogue had her hands on her hips.  "An' just who or what would ah find there?"  Her challenging stare was split equally between Remy and Logan.

Remy rolled his eyes.  "Not'ing but a piece o' de past, chere."

Her mock anger evaporated instantly and she smiled.  "Well then, ah don't care."

Behind them, the Witness chuckled, but so quietly that only Charles, who was watching him, noticed.  He met the Witness' eye with an expression of curiosity.

The Witness shrugged.  "I didn' realize I was such an obnoxious pup."

Charles tried not to laugh.  "Entertaining, certainly," he finally agreed.  Then he sobered.  "We never had much time to talk-- " he began.

The Witness waved the apology away, and nodded toward Remy.  "Y' got all de time y' need."

Charles looked toward Remy then back to the Witness.  He nodded.  "You're right."

The timer on the Witness' wrist beeped and began a sixty second countdown.  Forge, who had managed to make himself nearly invisible by Ororo's side, stepped up beside the Witness.  Ororo followed him.  She stopped in front of the Witness, then reached up and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"Goodbye my friend," she said with a smile.  The Witness brought her hand to his lips and then she stepped back.

#

Remy LeBeau looked over the assembled X-Men, and could not help the swell of joy he felt.  After so many years, so much sacrifice—so many times when he nearly gave up hope of ever being able to save them... to stare once more into each of their faces was worth everything he had paid.  

The counter continued to tick away, and he realized that he had no reservations about the oblivion rushing so quickly toward him.  He had lived his life according to his own rules, despite so many others who had tried to force him into their paths.  He had played an impossible gambit—and had won.

But more than anything else, he had lived—and died—for the dream.


End file.
